


Without a Word

by wincestplease



Category: SPN, Supernatural
Genre: AU, Angels, BAMF Dean, BAMF Sam, Bottom!Sam, Bullying, Demons, Fluff, Hurt!Sam, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Mute AU, Muteness, Rimming, Self-Hatred, TW dark, brother touching, but bobby loves his boys sooo much, but there will be disgusting amounts of fluff i PROMISE, comforting!dean, deans entire world literally is his little brother, h/c, jealous!Dean, john isnt a great father, mute!Sam, ok the tags make this seem super dark and it kinda is, protective!Dean, rain before the rainbow and all that, sam is 15 and dean is 19, sammy!verse, top!dean, you just have to suffer, you know
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-24
Updated: 2018-01-25
Packaged: 2018-02-06 00:11:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 30
Words: 156,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1837234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wincestplease/pseuds/wincestplease
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"And you can tell the world that you're tired<br/>but your excuses, they won't work<br/>'cause I'll know that you're lying<br/>Every time that I see your face<br/>I notice all the suffering<br/>Just turn to my embrace,<br/>I won't let you become nothing."<br/>-<br/>Also known as the one where Sam doesn't talk and Dean doesn't mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Say Something

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there!  
> Wow, if there ever was a fic that developed a life of it's own, it's this bad boy right here. It was supposed to be a teeny tiny 20k. At most. And now it's developed into a monster 100k fic that isn't even done yet. Yikes.  
> Anyhoo, I hope you enjoy! Feel free to comment as they are much appreciated ^.^ my tumble is wincestplease, I'd love it if you drop by and talk to me!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam is silent. Dean hears everything he says.   
> It has always been this way.

_**"When you don't talk, there's a lot of stuff that ends up not getting said."** _

_**-Catherine Gilbert Murdock** _

_**_________________________________________** _

Sam is 1 day old, and Dean is 4, as John tells him softly, “Dean…meet Sammy.” And then a tiny (so, unbelievably _small)_ thing is placed in Dean’s arms as he sits on the couch, and hazel eyes—wide and trusting—look up at him, and Dean smiles hugely, pressing a gentle kiss to Sam’s forehead. “I’m Dean,” He tells Sam in a whisper, like it was a huge secret. “I promise, Sammy, I’m gonna be the bestest big brother ever.”

It was a promise Sam would say he kept. Dean would argue that.

Sam is 1 year old, and Dean is 5, as Mary puts Sam to bed in his crib after a tiring first birthday party. Dean is being tucked in by John in the room across the hall, stomach full of cake and treats, but he’ll come out as soon as John and Mary are asleep, and he’ll reach his little fingers through the bars of the crib and hold Sam’s hand, and Mary will find him just like that, asleep, in the morning. But not tonight. Tonight is different.

Tonight, Dean screams around midnight—Mary and John race to Sam’s room, and they see a dark figure peering over their children. Dean, Sam, and John make it out before the fire erupts. Mary doesn’t.

Sam thinks about that a lot.

Sam is 2 years old, Dean is 6, and by now, Sam should be talking, should already be telling John or Dean what he wants, what he doesn’t want. He should at _least_ be babbling. But nothing, not a peep comes out of him. He’s sitting on the floor, and Dean’s teaching him how to play patty cake (though Sam’s more interested in grabbing onto Dean’s hands) and Dean isn’t pressuring Sam to sing the rhyme that goes along with the claps, but John half wishes he would. Sam listens to Dean more than he listens to his father.

John never understood.

Sam is 6 years old, and Dean is 10, well on his way to being a full-fledged hunter. He knows how to shoot a handgun and he’s got excellent aim. John is sure he’ll be one of the best hunters when he gets just a few years older. Sam is different. He doesn’t say anything at all, no matter how many times John has tried to provoke him. Dean is Sam’s defender, and when their dad gets to be too much, he sticks up for Sam, always. Sam communicates poorly with John, but Dean understands him.

Dean’s always understood.

Sam is 8, and Dean is 12, and Dean’s been teaching him how to read and write so that he can write notes to communicate. John yells a lot, at Dean, at Sam, at everyone. He’s angry at the world. Dean keep Sam safe from John’s vicious words as best he can, but he knows it still cuts Sam like a knife every time John complains that Sam will never do anything with his life.

Sam doesn’t think John’s views ever really changed. He just stopped voicing them as much.

Sam is 10, and Dean is 14, and Sam’s doing well in school, better than anyone ever thought he would. Except Dean. Dean always knew his kid would go on to do amazing things. Despite what people may think when they learn Sam can’t talk, the kids a fucking genius. He’s going to change the world one day. Dean is sure of it. He’s always been sure of it.

To this day, his faith in Sam had never faltered.

Sam is 12, and Dean is 16, and John is always gone hunting or piss drunk. Sam struggles to tell their father how he feels, but Dean always knows, and they have their own sign language that makes sense to them. When he leaves for school every morning, Sam’s fingers draw a heart on the inside of Dean’s wrist as a _goodbye, I love you._

It’s a habit he’s kept up.

Sam is 13, and girls don’t notice him much, other than to give him their pity, but that doesn’t make him sad. He doesn’t have an interest in girls anyway. He’s more concerned with Dean—infatuated by his every move, more like it. Dean is mesmerising with his leather jacket smell and the smile he saves for Sam alone. Dean goes hunting with Dad almost always, now, but he doesn’t go for the research part. He’s too young looking to really help with that, but Dad calls him up to help kill things, and Dean seems to like it, so Sam can’t be too sad when he goes.

He never got over the way the separation got to him.

Now, Sam’s 15, and his hair has grown long and shaggy, so he has to flick it out of his eyes sometimes. His smile is full and bright when he’s looking at Dean, and less so when he isn’t. John doesn’t yell anymore, not like he used to. But now, it’s almost worse. It’s almost like John pretends Sam doesn’t exist. Or he just doesn’t care. It’s not like he _can’t_ understand Sam, he doesn’t _try._

Dean doesn’t have to try.

He’s always been the one person who _knows_ Sam.

Maybe even better than Sam knows himself.

-

_I’m Dean Winchester._

_I think this project is stupid. I shouldn’t have to talk about myself. I’m not interesting. My life is not exciting or fun. Actually, it’s pretty shitty. I can honestly say that if someone else had it, I’d feel really fucking sorry for them._

_I don’t know what I’m supposed to put here, but I’m gonna try, because Sam likes school and he’d probably want me to. I bet he’d smile if he saw me now._

_Like I said, my name is Dean. I have a brother, Sam, and a dad, John. My mother’s name was Mary, but she died about 13 years ago._

_I don’t have any hobbies. I think my hobby would be taking care of my brother, if I were to have one. I guess I like doing that._

_Sam is…Sammy’s a little different.  Not in a bad way. Not in a good way either, I guess. He’s just different in a way that’s all his own, that’s neither good, nor bad. When my mom died, it was the night of Sam’s first birthday. And Sam was there, saw the whole thing. He was too young to remember her very clearly, but he remembered enough about her that he understood she was gone and not ever coming back._

_He just shut down completely. I was just a kid, but I remember this much—Sam didn’t talk. He’d been slow on talking before, hadn’t really said any words, just made noises with his mouth—laughed and cried, that sort of thing. But after mom died, it was like he forgot how to speak. Not that he tried, even when dad asked him to. Dad asked a lot. Made Sam cry when he asked._

_I never asked. I just knew that Sam didn’t talk, because he was sad or tired or he just didn’t want to, and I accepted it. To this day, Sam is 15 years old, and I still don’t pressure him about it._

_Sam is Sam, and that’s cool with me. If he wants to talk one day, he’ll do it. For now, we don’t need words to communicate. Dad doesn’t think so, but he can screw himself._

_My dad…well, my dad is something else. For starters, we kill monsters for a living._

Dean pauses, grimacing down at his paper, gripping the pen hard in his hand. He’d gotten more than carried away. Since when does he ever open up to anyone about Sam like that before? And his mom? Unacceptable. Sam isn’t to be mentioned unless necessary--that was the rule Dean had for himself.

 Safer for Sam that way.

Besides, his last name alias at this school wasn’t his real name, Winchester, it was one Dad had decided on—Johnson. Dean Johnson, and his dad was a mechanic and Sam was just quiet because he was terribly shy, and they were here staying with a relative. An uncle, actually. An imaginary one that Dad had made up. Uncle Al. Very creative, as always.

They were staying under the radar.

His life here was a lie, it had to be, to keep them safe from the dangerous things lurking in the night, all waiting to snatch them up the second they hear a recognized hunters name. And John Winchester was a well-known hunter, to say the least. The hunters network respected him for his work. Lots of evil things died by his hands, and many more would before he decided to put the gun down.

Or, before the gun put him down.

Dean slowly tears the paper apart in strips, and then crinkles it all into a ball, and shoves it to the bottom of his bag roughly, angry at himself for ever getting that vulnerable, even if he hadn’t showed the paper to anyone. How easy would it have been for someone to glance over at what he was writing and wonder why it said Dean _Winchester,_ or ask who Sam was? He couldn’t be truthful, not here, in public, with everyone.

Too many eyes.

Too much danger.

Today, and for the rest of the semester (dad promised Sam they’d stay the semester, he _promised)_ he would be Dean Johnson, and Sam was Sam Johnson, and they were a little, apple pie family, and no one would ask any questions.

Safer for them all.

Safer for Sam.

The bell rang. Dean didn’t have his self-introduction to hand in to the teacher, so he ducks out with a crowd of other students and manages making it out of class without being harassed.

This was only his first period, of his first day at this school, but he decided that he missed Sam, and since dad was working a hunt and had left late (or early, whatever you consider 2am to be) without saying goodbye, that he’d be lonely.

He missed Sam, he wanted to see him, and to tell him a little bit about the school. After all, Sam was starting tomorrow, his very first day of grade 9.

-

When Dean walks through the motel doors, Sam was curled up on the couch watching TV. He’d pulled one of the down-filled comforters off the bed and managed to swaddle himself in it completely—although outside it was warm and sunny, Sam’s body didn’t retain heat well and the AC in this motel seemed to work exceptionally well, unfortunately. The room was chilly, but Sam looked snug and cozy in his burrito of blankets.

“Hey, Sammy,”

Sam turns at the sound of that voice, suddenly aware and alert, searching for him. When he sees Dean, his face breaks into a smile, just blinded for a few seconds that Dean was here. He waves at his brother for his hello.

Dean toes off his boots and shrugs out of his jacket before joining Sam on the couch, lifting the blanket and scooting under it. He’s not cold, he just wants to be closer to Sam.

“You look exhausted,” Dean notes, eyeing the bags under Sam’s eye. “Bad dream or somethin’?” Dean frowns, concerned. Always concerned.

Instead of answering, Sam reaches for his notebook and pen, left on the coffee table, and in handwriting much neater than John’s or Dean’s, writes, **why’re you back so early? Everything okay? School just started.**

Dean frowns in disapproval. “You didn’t answer my question, Sam.” He says sternly.

Sam looks reproachful. **You didn’t answer mine.**

“Bitch,” Dean grumbles, running a hand back through his hair. “Everything is fine. I just missed you.” He answers honestly. “You’re gonna like it, Sam. I promise.”

Sam doesn’t look convinced. His hand reaches out and places it lightly on Dean’s bicep. He isn’t trying to communicate anything by the touching Dean there, he just wants the connection.

“Did you sleep at all tonight?” Dean asks, eyebrows raised.

Sam stares down in his lap, shaking his head slightly. He takes his hand away from Dean’s bicep and carefully scrawls, **too worried.**

“You’ve been to school before.” Dean says. “It’ll be okay, baby boy, I promise.”

Sam doesn’t write anything else. He doesn’t try to tell Dean anything more.

“Hey.”

Dean tries again when he doesn’t get a reaction.

“Sam, look at me, please.”

Sam’s eyes were filled with uncertainty, as he turns them on his big brother, waiting.

“Have I ever put you in a situation where I didn’t think it would be safe?” Dean asks expectantly.

Sam sighs very softly. He shakes his head, no.

“Exactly. So if this wasn’t safe for you, I wouldn’t be making you go.” Dean says soothingly. “You’re gonna love it, kiddo, I just know you will. It’s big, and you should see the library. Huge. Perfect for a nerd like you.”

Sam rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling when he shoves Dean playfully.

“There’s that smile,” Dean says triumphantly. “I knew it was in there somewhere.”

Sam writes something else on his notebook, holding it up for Dean to read. **Have you heard from dad?**

Dean shakes his head. “No, nothing.” He replies. “But it’s barely been a full day. He’ll call when he has the time.”

The smile fades, but Sam nods. He gestures to the TV in a vague motion and Dean grins his agreement, slinging his arm around Sam’s shoulders, pulling him in tighter.

-

Sam woke up when his stomach started demanding he eat, growling and grumbling unhappily. He blinks his eyes open, disoriented and sinfully comfortable in Dean’s embrace, coming to slowly, eyeing the room.

He’d somehow managed to crawl all the way onto Dean’s lap and curl up there like some sort of cat, and when he lifted his face from the crook of Dean’s neck (that smelled like home) Dean groaned and his hand came up to cup Sam’s head, gently pushing him back to where he was. “Stay,” Dean murmured softly.

Sam’s heart forgot how to work for a second, and that was _bad,_ because Dean is his brother, and he only wants Sam to stay because it’s warm where they are, they’re sharing body heat, and Dean’s cheek is resting slightly on Sam, so he’s like a pillow for Dean. That’s why Dean wants him to stay. It’s not like he _likes_ cuddling Sam like this. No. Sam can’t let himself think like that.

Sam frees his head and yawns, becoming fully alert, his heart working overtime as Dean grumbles, “Sammy. Don’t go.”

Sam’s stomach roared again. He pokes Dean twice in the shoulder.

“M’tired.” Dean replies in a groan.

Sam uses his finger to trace _I’m hungry_ on Dean’s chest.

“Just gimme….5 minutes..”

Sam huffs impatiently, and tries to move free from the entrapment of Dean’s arms around him, to no avail.

“Sammy. Stop tryin’ to leave me.” Dean whines, eyes squeezing shut. “Stay.”

Sam shakes his head and with one burst of energy, he frees himself, no matter how nice it would feel to stay curled up in Dean’s arms like that forever.

It was an indulgence he couldn’t allow.

Dean finally seems to wake up, groaning and complaining as he does, standing slowly, testing his feet as if he’s not sure they even work. “Damn you and your bottomless pit of a stomach, Sam.” He yawns. “I was comfortable.”

Sam sticks his tongue out at Dean silently. He gestures to the door with his hand, a question in his eyes.

“Yeah, we can go out. There’s a little diner I’ve been meaning to try just downtown. Sound good?”

Sam gives Dean a small smile, and when Dean returns it, he knows all is forgiven, and he takes his place beside Dean in the passenger seat of the impala shortly after, and Dean blasts Zeppelin on the radio with the windows all rolled down, and even though Sam can’t sing along, he pretends he does, he pretends he and Dean sing at the top of their lungs.

And for a moment, everything is okay, and Sam’s not just a lucky mute boy with a cool big brother, he’s Sam, and his muteness doesn’t define him, it’s just a part of  him, along with his hazel eyes and his brown hair and his love for pizza and Dean and reading. Sam smiles at the waitress and Dean orders their food, and she doesn’t look at him like he’s a freak, she looks at him like he’s just a shy guy.

Sam wishes things could be okay like that forever, but it’s a reality he knows he’ll never achieve.

-

Dean wakes up at 1:14am to the sound of a jostling body in a panic, bolting upright, eyes wide and scanning the room for danger before they land on Sam—who’s tossing and turning violently on the bed beside his.

Dean shoots out of his bed like a bullet, worried, placing a gentle hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Sammy,” He whispers.

Sam’s figure keeps convulsing, his face twisted into this mask of _pain,_ and it probably hurts Dean to see Sam like this more than if he’d gotten shot with rock salt so he _had_ to wake Sam up—for both of them, it was better.

Sam comes away with a start and grabs onto Dean like he just expected him to be there (he always was, when a nightmare came, so it makes sense for Sam to assume that) throwing  himself at his big brother as if Dean was a life raft and Sam was drowning.

Dean holds on with equal enthusiasm, knowing that it’s always physical closeness that brings Sam out of his nightmares and into the real world. “Shhh.” Dean whispers, rubbing slow circles on Sam’s back, pulling him into his lap. “It’s okay. You’re here, with me, Sam. In the motel room. Dad’s hunting. But I’m here. I’m here.”

Sam, after a long moment, draws an _n_ with his finger on Dean’s chest, with a question mark, which meant he was asking for his notebook.

Dean reaches blindly with one hand for it on the nightstand beside Sam’s bed, and then a pen, flicking on the lamp so Sam will be able to see, and he hands them to his kid, keeping one arm around Sam at all times.

The youngest Winchester scribbles something down quickly, and then shows it to Dean, eyes huge and scared. **Nightmare.**

Dean sighs very quietly. “Yeah, I figured,” He mumbles sympathetically. “What about this time, kiddo?”

Sam grimaces, and for a moment, Dean is sure Sam won’t even tell him. But then he swallows and writes, **school, school, school, school, school, school--**

Dean shudders and pulls the notebook out of Sam’s hand, putting it down behind him and out of Sam’s reach. “No,” Dean tells him. “You don’t have to be afraid. School will be fun.”

Sam shakes his head back and forth violently until Dean traps his face between his two hands, holding him still and forcing Sam to look at him. “Hey. It’s going to be fine. I promise. You’ll love it.”

Sam closes his eyes, mouthing, _no, I won’t. They’ll laugh._

 _Oh._ Sam was scared people would make fun of him because he doesn’t talk. Of course. “If anyone does, if _anyone_ makes you feel bad, Sam, just punch ‘em.”

That provokes a teensy, tiny smile out of Sam. Dean feels like he’s just won the lottery and that was 100 million dollar jackpot prize.

“Okay?”

Sam nods.

“Good. You’re going to love high school, I promise.”

Sam doesn’t look the least bit convinced. His fingers slowly trace a question into Dean’s chest. _Stay with me?_

“Sure.” Dean says quietly. If it was what Sam wanted, then of course he’d give it to him, without question. Besides, they’ve always been physically closer than a lot of other siblings. Not many brothers can say they find comfort in holding onto the loop of their big brothers belt buckle, not like Sam can.

Sam takes in a shaky breath, and he lies down. Dean follows his example, settling down next to his brother, his chest pressed to Sam’s back. “Try to get some rest, champ.”

He’d need it for tomorrow. Dean was looking forward to the possible panic attack that would come with having to face something as big and new as high school. He half wished he was smart enough to home school Sam, so he didn’t ever have to be sacred like this. Plus, that way, Dean would get the whole day with Sam.

But he knows Sam has to do this, it’s better for him to get to make friends who aren’t Dean, even if they’re temporary, even if they’ll be just a memory in the miles that will eventually separate them. _He needs to develop social skills._ John had said, when Dean finally told him how much school scares him. _You can’t always be there for him. He’s going to need other people too._

But John was wrong. Dean _could_ always be there for Sam. He’d make sure he was always there for him. No one else understands his kid like he does, no one else loves Sammy more than him.

He’d always tried to get Sam into the elementary schools that were small, with kids who were raised nice, who wouldn’t completely tear Sam apart the first chance they got. But bullies were everywhere, and Dean couldn’t protect him from their words the way he could protect him from bullets.

High school was a whole new ball game, though. He’ll have four different classes, and that’s four different groups of people. If there’s 30 in each class, that’s _120_ new people for Sam to meet and that’s _120_ people to tease him.

Dean shuddered. He wished he could go with Sam to every class, defend him, protect him, make them stay the fuck away with their harsh words and their mocking laughter.

No one gets it—Sam is a _genius._ He puts even John to shame with his intuition on hunts, the way his mind works…even Dean doesn’t understand that. He makes connections so quickly, he considers, finds proof, explains in his own way what he means, on paper or by mouthing it.

And they think that just because he doesn’t speak, that he’s stupid.

It makes Dean angry, so angry, that they’d think something like that about his Sam. They don’t know. They don’t get it.

He lays an arm over Sam’s hip a little possessively, feeling the need to have him just that much closer. It helps soothe the anger, his kid.

“Night, Sammy.” Dean breathes, his own eyes closing.

Sam’s already asleep.

-

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

Sam’s fingers are tapping on Dean’s thigh as he pulls up to the high school. It was Sam’s first day of grade 9, and although elementary hadn’t been a breeze, high school would be a much different story, with many more people much bigger than him to tease him.

Sam wasn’t vulnerable, per say. He was trained in all the same ways as Dean—he could fire many different types of guns with excellent aim, he knows 103 different ways to kill an attacker with his bare hands, and the kid could easily carve a werewolf up like a jack-o-lantern with his knife. But Sam is still vulnerable. He shies away from violence in a way Dean never did, and Dean knows that when it comes to fights, Sam won’t fight back until his life is in danger. Fights were never bad in elementary—the worst injury Sam got was a scraped knee when a bully pushed him to the ground outside. But high school? Things could ugly real fast.

Dean knows that the taps means Sam’s nervous—it’s something he’s always done when he’s feeling anxious. Sam doesn’t know how to sign very well, but he has his own language that he and Dean understand just fine.

Dean winds a comforting arm around his kid, and Sam slides across the seats, grateful to be closer, always wanting to be closer.

 But his hand never leaves Dean’s thigh.

“It’s going to be fine, Sam.” Dean soothes. He wishes he didn’t have to put Sam through this, wishes with all he is that things could be different, that he could make Sam feel safe. He wanted Sam to be _excited_ about school.

Sam doesn’t answer, of course—he never does, not with his words, anyway—but the tapping increases speed.

_Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap._

“Sam.”

_Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap, tap, tap, tap, taptaptaptaptap—_

“Sam.” Dean repeats, putting a hand over Sam’s, trapping him and ending the taps. “I know you’re scared. But you can do this. If I thought this was too much, I wouldn’t have brought you here.” He murmurs. “I know you. I know what you’re capable of. You can do this. I know you can.” He encourages.

Sam looks up at Dean with big, hazel eyes, unblinking. He shakes his head back and forth. _No._

Dean is so, _so_ tempted to say ‘ _yeah, lets try this again some other day when you’re feeling up to it’_ because the look in Sam’s eyes is terrifying and it makes Dean feel like a criminal for putting him through this.

He feels a vague sort of anger towards John. John is Sam’s dad, he should be here for shit like this.

But in the back of his mind, Dean _knows_ that he doesn’t really mean it. John wouldn’t help Sam anyway. He’d rather be here for Sam than watch their father try to comfort him, (if he offered any comfort at all, god knows John is far from being the poster boy for sympathy) and he knows that Sam would rather have someone he knows doesn’t think of him as stupid.

“Yes, you will.” Dean sighs. “C’mon, Sam, or you’ll be late.” He has to say something like that before he crumbles, just from seeing the fear in Sam’s eyes, the same fear Dean vowed to never let creep in there in the first place, from the time he was four years old.

Sam shakes his head again and frees his hand from under Dean’s, grabbing his note book and a pen out from under the seat, scribbling down quickly. **_You don’t understand. I’m a freak. They’re all going to make fun of me._**

Dean read the words as Sam was writing them, shaking his head before Sam was even finished. “No, stop,” Dean orders, “stop, Sam. If anyone makes fun of you, you just…I don’t know, punch them. You’re good at that. No one gets to call you a freak besides me. Got it?”

Sam gives Dean a look, and Dean sighs again. Sam clearly didn’t get it, proving his earlier point—Sam was much more hesitant to jump the gun. “Fine, maybe violence isn’t the answer. If someone is making fun of you, just tell a teacher, or walk away. Or call me.” Dean adds seriously. “You have no reason to be afraid. You have just as much right to be there as the rest of them.”

Sam doesn’t look so sure, but he does look comforted, however little.

Dean’s relieved to see Sam’s hand isn’t shaking as he writes, **I’m going to try my best, De.**

Dean wants to cry, or laugh, or hug Sam tight and never let go—he was so fucking proud of him for being this way, for being so brave. Instead, he settles for a smile, clapping Sam on the shoulder. “That’s my boy,” He says fondly. “Go get ‘em, tiger.”

 Sam stretches to press a short kiss to Dean’s cheek and then traces a slow, precise heart on the inside of Dean’s wrist they’d long ago decided was _goodbye, I love you,_ and he’s gone, out the impala, backpack and all.

Dean waits until he’s inside, and then starts up the impala slowly, wishing fiercely he could protect Sam from anything and everything that would ever want to hurt him.

He half considered waiting outside the doors until Sam was dismissed, but he knew he’d do nothing but worry. He might as well go back to the motel, clean things up, do something productive. Maybe he’d call dad, see what he was up to.

He felt a little lost without Sam, after having him all summer. He didn’t quite know what to do with himself without his kid there.

Pressing his lips in a line, Dean drives slowly back to the motel, his mind somewhere far away, thinking about the color of Sam’s eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! So chapter titles are going to be song lyrics/titles that remind me of this verse! If you have anything in mind, I'd love it if you could comment some suggestions for upcoming chapters! Much love!


	2. They don't know you like I do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of Sam's first day of high school. Also, John calls with some interesting news.

“Desires are what can most easily ruin us, lovely.”   
― Simon Panova,  _Nightmarish Sacrifice_

-

It’s 2:30, and there’s half an hour until Sam gets out of school, but pacing back on forth on the dusty motel carpet isn’t going to work anymore—Dean’s going insane with worry. He half considers pulling Sam out of class early just so he can know how it all went, but he knows Sam wouldn’t want any more attention drawn to himself than there already must be.

So he cruises the impala down the roads, eyes everywhere, seeing nothing. He hated the way the passenger seat was so empty without Sam, hated the silence in a way he never did when his kid was with him.

He doesn’t put on the radio—it doesn’t feel right. ACDC doesn’t play when Dean’s heart is heavy like this. It won’t soothe him. Nothing can help him now except the knowledge that Sam is okay.

Which he’d have to wait about 20 more minutes to get.

He taps his hands along the steering wheel, wondering how he’d ask. He didn’t want it to sound like he _expected_ Sam to get bullied—it wasn’t like that. It’s just that….Dean was bracing for the worst, but hoping for the best. That’s a better way to describe it.

He wanted the best for his kid—always, but he knew how likely that really was, for a Winchester.

The next minutes tick by painfully fast, and it seems like Dean waits hours in the impala before kids come flooding outside.

It’s not as hard to spot Sam as it probably should be—lots of kids at this school had the same body stature, even some with the same mop of hair. But Sam carried himself much differently than the rest, and Dean recognized him from the moment he came out of the building, head down, clutching a binder to his chest as if for security.

Heart thumping, he waits until Sam is buckled in to the passenger side before he starts asking. “So,” He says softly, “How was it?”

Dean already had some vague idea about how it was, because Sam didn’t look like a shining ray of sunshine, not exactly. His eyes were cast downwards, his sleeves pulled over his hands, even in the warm afternoon sun, and he reached for his notebook only after a few moments hesitation, meaning he wasn’t looking forward to elaborating, whatever it was.

 **Fine.** Sam writes stiffly. **I just kept to myself.**

Dean grimaces. “Sam, don’t give me that bullshit. What _really_ happened?”

Sam looks out the window, closing his notebook. That’s Sam’s way of communicating, _I don’t want to talk about it._

Dean holds his breath, half expecting Sam to say in a casual tone, “ _they taught me how to speak,”_ but that was insane and Dean knew it, he’s not even sure where the idea came from—but he knew one thing: something had gone terribly wrong while Sam was trapped in the confinement of those brown brick walls, and Dean intended to find out what.

-

When they get back to the motel, Sam walks with purpose towards the bed, and flops down, curling into a small ball on his side. His expression seems blank and lifeless.

Dean follows shortly after, holding one of Sam’s many notebooks that he’d grabbed from the impala’s glove box, page white and fresh.

They always rip out the pages when their conversation is done—put them through a paper shredder and flush the rest down a toilet. It’s safer that way, and it was more private. The words between those pages belonged to them alone, and to have someone else see them would feel like a stranger seeing you naked and vulnerable.

This one is no different—every page left inside is blank, all others disposed of. Like every other notebook Sam has ever had, the front is plain black.

He holds it out to Sam, along with a pen, as an offering. “Please,” Dean begs. “I know something is wrong. I can’t help you if I don’t know what.”

Sam looks at him, his eyes wide and hesitating, heavy with the weight of whatever awful thing he experienced today, and he shakes his head slightly. He doesn’t want to tell Dean. He doesn’t want Dean to think he’s helpless, that he’s too dependent on everyone around him that he can’t handle this thing on his own. Plenty of other kids must have to face the same problem, right? Sam could do this. He’s a Winchester. He had to do this.

Dean isn’t giving up on this anytime soon, though, and he keeps the hand with the notebook and pen outstretched. “Sam.” He says, voice getting more desperate. “ _Please._ I’m losing my mind over here,” He chokes. “I was worried all day about how your day was going, I just want to know. Please.”

When Sam hesitates again, Dean adds, “Since when have we ever kept secrets from each other?”

And it was true. Through the years, there was never a secret between Sam and Dean. The brothers never felt the need to hide anything from one another. With Sam’s muteness, secrets only alienated them from each other even more. They were open, even with the little things, and they never judged each other. Now, doubt was starting to set in. Why would Sam keep something like this from him?

What would Dean do if Sam really decided not to tell him?

But then his inner panic fades as Sam takes the notebook and rolls onto his stomach on the bed, pressing the pen to the paper and holding it there, still, for a moment, as if decided what to say. Then, it moves, fluid and without pause across the paper, as he explains it all.

 **I’m so different, Dean.**   **No one understands me at school—no one, out of the 800 kids that go there. They look at me like I’m some sort of freak. Like I have two heads and 7 eyes, like I’m some sort of lab experiment.**

**And the teachers? They’re not much better. They all give me this, _oh it must be so hard_ look, like they ‘re just hoping for an opportunity to feel so bad for me they can’t even treat me like a normal student, always telling me to take my time on assignments, stuff like that. Special treatment. I have the best grades in _all_ my classes. I’m not stupid. I know I’m not. I thought high school would be better because everyone would be more mature but it’s not. It’s hell. It’s hell on earth. **

**I’m sick of it. Everywhere I go everyone is just dying to feel bad for me and it’s driving me insane. And it’s not like they even try to understand. They think I’m playing some funny _sharades_ game when I try to explain I want to know where the library is, or tell them my name, and they laugh and try to guess, like it’s funny. It’s not _funny._ It’s frustrating. They don’t get it—they never have to do this, they never have to deal with this like I do.  I just wish everything was different. I wish I could talk. No one knows what it’s like, no one gets it, to wake up every morning, to that smile, to see you so happy even though you have to put up with me, with always having to look after me like I’m an infant, because I can’t do _the one thing everyone else can._ No one knows what it’s like to wake up every morning wanting nothing more than to tell the one person who means everything to you how much you love them and you can’t even do that without a pen and a paper. **

**I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be complaining. This is pathetic. I’m pathetic. **

When Sam’s done writing, he throws the notebook away from himself like it disgusts him, and he curls in on himself, head hung low between his shoulder blades, which are shaking as he tries to conceal his tears.

Dean carefully retrieves the notebook, and reads slowly, swallowing, his own eyes wet from knowing the things his kid has to endure every single day, the things even Dean could never fully understand, because he doesn’t face the same battle as Sam. To know what kind of weight Sam carries around every day, always viewing himself as lesser, when in Dean’s mind, Sam is always, _always_ held above anybody else.

It hurt like _hell._

He can’t do anything. He can’t give Sam is voice, he can’t tell everyone to treat Sam like Dean does, he can’t follow Sam around and protect him every day of his life, forever. He _can’t._

But he can, however, gather Sam up and pull him onto his lap, and hold him tight. So he does that, and he presses his face into Sam’s hair, his arms pressing Sam against him tightly. “I’m so sorry,” Dean breathes, his eyes wet and tears threatening to spill over. He felt vulnerable, naked, almost, exposed and wounded, here with Sam, which is strange, because he’s never hidden anything from Sam before.

There are things need to be said and Dean is the only one who can say them, and he needs to say them as much as Sam needs to hear them, so with a deep breath and a silent prayer to whatever higher force there may be, he starts.

 “I wish I could give you everything. I want to just…to just give you the world. God knows you deserve it, Sam. I want to just wrap up the sun and the moon and every single star, ever.  But I can’t, and I know it’s not fair, that what you go through _every day_ is not fair, but you don’t have a choice.” Dean’s voice breaks, and he takes a moment to compose himself before continuing.

“I wish, though, more than anything, that you did. But you don’t, and it isn’t fair and it sucks ass, but _that’s life_ , and this is your life, and it’s the only one you’ve got. Shitty. I know. But you’re not alone, Sam. You’re not. You might feel alone sometimes, but you aren’t, and as long as I can help it, you never will be. I’m not sayin’ everything will be a walk in the park—I know it won’t be. Far from it, probably. I’m just sayin’ that yeah, it’s tough, but we’re together, and…” Dean says something he doesn’t say as often as he knows he should, especially for how many times a day he thinks the three, simple enough words.  “I love you, and I know you love me,” Dean smiles faintly, through his tears. “without you saying it, I know you do, Sam. I know you love me without a word.”

Sam freezes as though the words have caught him red handed at some sort of crime, and then Dean hears a soft cough—almost a sob, and then Sam’s in his arms, and his fingers are tracing _thank you, thank you,_ over and over again on Dean’s chest. He knows Sam needed to be reassured, he needed to be told Dean was here.

Sometimes it’s just nice to know that no matter where you are, you can always look beside you and see a familiar face.

“Don’t thank me,” Dean begs, with a tiny hint of a smile. “Just stop crying. Please.”

Sam nuzzles Dean’s neck and nods, like he’s going to try his hardest. And sure enough, seconds later, the tears dry, the crying stops, and Sam is left with a smile the size of Alabama, lighting up his features.

“There we go,” Dean mumbles. “Much better. Now. No more chick moments, you hear? That little speech I just gave used up all your pep talks for…three whole years.”

Sam rolls his eyes, but Dean is glad to see that beautiful sunshine smile doesn’t fade, not like the fear in his eyes does.

Before Dean can say anything else, his phone is vibrating from his pocket. Curiously, he digs it out, reads the caller ID, and swallows.

 “Sam,” He says before answering. “I’m sure you have homework that needs doing.”

Sam’s eyes narrow and he shakes his head, but it’s an obvious lie. It was only the first day of school, but Dean knew that Sam’s binders had sheets in them that weren’t there before. “I mean it.” He adds. “Homework. Now. School won’t get any better when you’re failing your classes.” Maybe it was tough love, but it would be different if the words came from their father’s mouth. This was Dean. Dean was different.

Sam grimaces. He was never fond of these times, when Dean stepped up and played parent while John wasn’t around. Hell, most times, even when John _was_ around, Dean played _dad_. Sam listened to him more anyways, and John never was one to jump the gun on the parenting stuff. He didn’t _get_ Sam. And Sam doesn’t like to listen to people who don’t understand much.

Dean was the one who attended parent-teacher meetings. Dean signed off on all Sam’s permission slips. Dean’s phone number is down as Sam’s emergency contact. _Dean._ Not John.

It’s always been that way.

Sam’s first steps were towards Dean. His first smile was directed towards Dean. Every first after that…it was always Dean, cheering him on, never quite in the spotlight with him but always on the sidelines, his biggest supporter, his number one fan.

So Sam obeys now, ducking his head and grabbing his binder settling down on the motels poor excuse for a desk as Dean ducks outside to answer the phone.

“Dad,” Dean breathes, relieved. “Everything okay?”

There’s no pause, and John wastes no times with greetings. He doesn’t ask how Sam is. “There’s a hunt in the area.”

Dean blinks, frowning. That caught him off guard—it was the last thing he’d expected their father to say. “In the area? What, you mean here? Where Sammy and I are?”

There’s that hesitation, tainted with disappointment, and honestly, John sounds a little accusing. “You sound surprised.”

“Well, I didn’t know.” Dean admits truthfully, shoving his free hand into the pocket of his jeans. “I didn’t think there was anything here.”

John doesn’t sound pleased after that. “How oblivious can you be? Three people go missing, all around the same age, _all_ in the same two week period? How the hell did you miss that headline?” He demands.

Dean wasn’t expecting that at all. “I just, haven’t been out much, is all.” Dean mumbles. “We only got here a few days ago. Things have been busy, with Sam and getting settled.”

John ignores that. “Well, I’m assigning it to _you_. Bobby and I are working this case. There isn’t another hunter for miles. It’s up to you.”

“Even the research?” Dean hedges.

“Of course. Everything I would do. You’re 19, Dean, and it’s long past time you start hunting on your own. It’s a perfect hunt. Not too easy, not impossible. Time to test your skills on the field.”

“What about Sam?” Dean asks, glancing back at the motel through the window. Sam’s papers are sprawled out on the desk, and he’s tapping a pencil to his lip, deep in thought—probably mentally working out a problem Dean would never be able to understand in the slightest. Kid’s always been a genius.

“What about him?” Dean didn’t miss the way John’s voice got slightly more irritated when he brought Sam up, but he didn’t comment on it. “Sam is 15. He’ll be alright on his own during the day.”

“You mean I can’t take him on the hunt.” It’s not a question. Dean is only saying what he knows is true.

“Would you really want to risk your brother’s safety that way?” John hisses back, somewhat viciously. Accusing Dean, once again. Like _he_ was the one who was never concerned about Sam.

Sam _always_ came first for Dean. Always.

Dean blinks, stunned. “I was 7 when I started shooting things that weren’t just targets. He’s 15 and he’s _trained—_ well trained, at that—and you’re telling me that I just have to tell him that he has to stay home while I go out and hunt?” No way in hell Sam would like that.

Not that Dean was fond of having Sam in harm’s way, but he knew Sam would be even less fond of the idea of him staying at the motel while Dean does all the dirty work.

“That’s exactly what you’re supposed to do.” John replies smoothly. “You’re his big brother, Dean. Take responsibility.”

“Yeah. And you’re his _dad.”_ Dean says under his breath. “How about _you_ take some responsibility?”

“What was that?” John sneered, in such a way that Dean knew John had heard exactly what he’d said.

Dean grinds his teeth. “Nothing.” He replies, not wanting to start a fight. Fights with John were always long and nasty, ending it slammed doors and loud voices and sometimes even a punch if John was going after Sam. “Forget it.”

“That’s what I thought.”

There’s a silence that passes between them, long and a little awkward, even, until Dean clears his throat. Didn’t John remember he had a second son who had just had his very first day of high school? Or did he just not care?

“Aren’t you going to ask about Sam?” Dean snaps, his anger fading a little as he turns again to Sam in the motel window, now avidly scribbling down on a paper, his brow furrowed. It was an adorable expression, the little line he got between his eyebrows, the way his lips tightened in concentration….

Adorable. No. No, Sam’s not _adorable._ A 5 year old adorable. An 8 year old could even be adorable. But Sam is 15, and he’s Dean’s _brother,_ so no. Sam isn’t adorable. Dean should know better than to think something like that.

“No,” John says, pulling Dean out of his inner panic. “I’m not. I know that if something was wrong, you’d tell me.”

“And if something was right?” Dean presses, jaw tight.

“When is something ever right?” John sighs, suddenly sounding very tired. “Look, I have to go, Dean. It’s been a long day. This thing is hard to track down with minimal living witnesses and so far not a scrap of history.”

Dean rubs his temple. “Well, good luck with it, I guess. Call me when you know anything more.”

“Right,” John mumbles. “I will. Don’t forget about that hunt. I mean it, Dean. I want you to do it. By yourself. Meaning, without Sam.”

Dean can’t promise much. “Be careful, dad. I love you.”

John’s gruff and tired voice is almost warm when he says, “Yeah. You too.”

The line disconnects.

Dean stares at the phone for few seconds before letting out a long sigh, joining Sam once more in the motel room. Like a cat, Sam’s head lifts, and he blinks slowly at Dean, mouthing, _everything okay? Was that dad?_

“Yes, and yes again.” Dean answers. “He’s just…checking up.” He didn’t mention anything about the hunt, not yet. He nods towards Sam’s homework. “How’s it going?”

Sam rolls his eyes, scribbled something down on a piece of paper, and crosses the room to hand it to Dean. **I finished it in class. I was studying some material from last year so I’m ready for anything else.**

Dean grinned down at Sam and ruffled his hair. “Atta boy.” He murmurs affectionately. “Proud of you.”

Sam turns towards the praise like it’s candy, giving Dean a trademark sunshine smile, preening at the affection.

“Alright, don’t give me the puppy eyes.” Dean grumbles. “I’ll order a pizza for dinner. Sound good?”

Sam smiles. Nods twice.

It did, actually.

It sounded great.

-

It’s almost midnight, and Sam has school tomorrow, so Dean insists he go to bed, but Sam wants to stay up and watch some stupid rom com movie on the motel’s shitty TV, so Dean lets him, because he can never say no to Sam. He can’t say no when Sam’s looking at him with his eyes so wide and pleading, with his face so open and….no, not adorable. Dean already decided Sam _wasn’t_ adorable, or cute, or any of those things. Sam was just Sam. And Dean couldn’t say no.

He’s leaning up against the head bored, legs stretched out in front of him. Sam’s head is on his lap, and his kid’s eyes are fighting to stay open once Dean starts absently running his fingers through Sam’s silky soft hair. “Sleep, baby boy,” Dean murmurs, a little surprised at himself for the nick name. It seems to shock Sam, too, because he swallows and his eyes flutter wide open as he shifts a little. Dean doesn’t comment on it otherwise, but he kind of likes the way Sam looked when the name slipped out.

After another 10 minutes or so, with Sam still fighting sleep, he sighs. “Sammy, seriously. It’s way past late. You have school tomorrow and you need to get up early. I know how you get when you don’t sleep.”

Sam gives him a sarcastic look (Sam is quite good at those) and reaches for his notebook and pen, leisurely writing, his hand writing easy and loopy.

**I want to stay up with you. Please? I’m so comfortable. I don’t want you to leave.**

Dean rolls his eyes. “I can’t sleep sitting up, bitch.”

Sam frowns. **Lay down, then.**

Dean raises his eyebrows, amused. “Then you’re going to have to move, hot stuff.”

Sam looked momentarily panicked, before he somehow finds resolve to his inner conflict and slides off of Dean, and waits for Dean to lie down. When Dean is settled comfortably on his side, Sam, with a pleased little smile, lays down right next to him, his back pressed to Dean’s chest, their bodies connected from shoulders down to feet.

“Sam,” Dean says, surprised at himself for the warning tone in his voice. “What are you doing?”

There’s a pause as Sam writes, and then Dean is shown the notebook.  **Please, can I stay with you tonight?**

“Why, Sam?” Dean is almost afraid to ask, he’s scared that whatever Sam’s answer is it’ll only fuel this fluttering in his chest that he knows he shouldn’t be having.

 **I want to. You’re warm and you smell good and I feel so safe with you.** Sam writes.

There it is, that pounding, that rush of _victory_ Dean gets. A little voice inside his head is chanting _yes, he wants you, you idiot! He likes being close to you. You must have done something right to deserve this._

And on the other side, all his alarms are going off: _no, stop now before this gets too far. You’re his big brother, it’s your job to look out for him, not spoon with him! This is dangerous ground. You’re walking on thin ice, Winchester._

Dean ignored the negative side, because damn it all, he was comfortable as hell, and he had to admit that it eased his mind to have Sam so close—it took away that edge of _where is he, where’s Sam?_  whenever he wakes up in the middle of the night. Sam was here, in his arms, sleep warm and petite.

He liked it.

He _loved it._

“Uh, okay.” He says softly, trying not to sound too eager. “you can stay. But you better not drool on me.”

Sam doesn’t write anything back, but seconds later, his body goes limp, as sleep finally takes over, the battle of the dreamland winning.

Dean stays like that for a few minutes, just listening to the only sound Sam’s mouth ever makes—his breathing. It was a perfect soundtrack to his night. He wanted to sleep just like this, he did—but he knew that he’d never get away with discreetly researching about that case if Sam was conscious—the nosey bastard would want to know everything, which means he’d want to go with Dean on the hunt, and Dean wasn’t prepared to face that just yet, not until he had some idea of what he was up against.

He had to do it now.

Without jostling Sam, Dean manages to roll onto his back, and pull his laptop from the floor beside the bed, angling the screens brightness away from Sam as he powers it to life.

His fingers are fast and efficient amongst the worn keys as he searches the newspaper, headlines confirming that in fact, there was a case here, and three missing people all in their teens, disappeared in the past two weeks.

The first to go missing was 17 year old Lacy Burnabee, who’d apparently been going for a midnight jog to clear her head when she’d been kidnapped.

The second, was 14 year old Kate Lannette, who, as the record stated, was walking to the mall and was taken in broad daylight. No one saw the attacker or heard screaming.

The third, who’d disappeared only three days ago, was 16 year old Kyle Tedisco, who was walking back from school and was never seen again.

Dean frowned at the articles. This was definitely something. And the fact that they were all around Sam’s age made him more than uneasy.

None of it made sense. Dean didn’t know what could be doing all the killings—it was nothing he’d heard of before, and he knew that if dad had any suspicions, he’d tell Dean right away. This was something new, something they’d never seen before, and if it’s taking victims away this fast—three within such a short period of time—it was either hungry, or extremely bloodthirsty. Neither was good, and by the looks of things _, it_ , (whatever it was) would be out hunting soon.

And Sam was exactly its favourite type of prey.


	3. No One Ever Lost as Hard As I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean finds out more about the case, and there's trouble in paradise when sparring goes wrong.

_**“I am crying over the loss of something I never had. How ridiculous. Mourning something that never was – my dashed hopes, dashed dreams, and my soured expectations.”  -E.L. James** _

-

Sam had never, in his life, felt safer than when he was in Dean’s arms. Sleeping or not, this calmness passed over him, and he knew that he was untouchable—from everyone. From dad, from the guys at school, from every evil thing, _ever._ Dean wouldn’t let them get to him, he never did. Dean protects him, he always has, and he always will, and Sam is _safe._

He wakes up to fingers trailing up and down his spine, causing the most delicious kind of goose bumps in his wake and Sam shivers as he comes to the waking world, blinking sleepily.

He realizes that they’ve changed positions throughout the night—he’d fallen asleep pressed against Dean’s back, as impersonal as cuddling could get, but now, he’s turned the other way, his face tucked under Dean’s chin, his hands holding onto fistfuls of Dean’s old band T shirt. Their legs are intertwined, Sam’s caught deliciously helpless between both of Dean’s, and his big brothers arms are wrapped securely around him, one on his waist and one cupping the back of Sam’s head, holding him to his chest.

Dean must notice as Sam wakens. “Morning, kiddo.” His hand moves from the back of Sam’s head, freeing him. “You slept like a rock. No nightmares.”

Sam peers up at Dean with curiosity. The light seemed to be coming into the motel room at an odd angle—not like it was early morning, but rather midafternoon. In a panic, Sam bolts up, nearly banging his and Dean’s heads together in the process, eyes wide and alarmed.

“Relax.” Dean says easily, sharing none of Sam’s concern. “It’s noon.”

Sam’s eyes widen in alarm, and he starts to scramble out of bed. He couldn’t believe Dean let him sleep in this late. Now he’d have all eyes on him when he walked into class. Late.

“Sam, it’s okay. I called the school. You have a horrible cold—you just had to stay home, doctor’s orders.” Dean grinned a bad boy kind of smile, one that said, _I did something I know was wrong, and I’m proud of it,_ as he passes Sam his notebook and a blue pen. “Go on, then.” He gestures his hand vaguely towards the notebook and pen Sam now clutches. “Get mad.”

Sam’s hand is uncertain against the fresh, white paper. **Why let me stay home?**

Dean yawns, stretching, as he considers, looking thoughtful. “I tried waking you when it was time. Half -heartedly, I’ll admit.” He shrugs. “But you were you like a bag of rocks, Sammy. Seriously, I’ve never seen someone so dead to the world who still had a steady pulse.” Dean chuckles, shaking his head. “It was adora—funny. It was funny.” He subs quickly, face going pink. “Um. Yeah.”

Sam peers at him. He knew Dean had been about to say, _adorable,_ but he also saw that Dean made sure to switch adjectives, quickly, like dodging a bullet.

He’s not quite sure what he thinks about that, exactly, but he knows it does strange things to his heart, and he knows it’s wrong.

He also can’t really bring himself to care.

Sam writes. **Can I go now?**

Dean arches his eyebrows, clearly glad Sam didn’t ask about the awkward stammer. “You want to go to school?”

Sam considers, and then after a wince, he shakes his head. He hated that place. He loved learning, of course—knowledge was everything. Learning was everything. But the social part of school made him sick. He wishes he could take courses online. Maybe he’d mention it to John.

“Perfect. Then come back to bed.” Dean offers. “Unless, you know, you don’t want to…” He trails off awkwardly.

Sam roll his eyes. There was nothing he wanted more. He crawled slowly back under the warm covers, and tucked his face into Dean’s chest, delighted when Dean’s arms come around him to hold him.

So maybe there was something he wanted more than this.

He just wanted more than this.

Sam had felt this way for some time now, about Dean, but admitting it to himself was a whole other ball game. Dean was his _brother,_ for god sakes. His main care taker, at that. Dean did everything for Sam. But Sam wanted more, he was greedy with Dean’s love—he craved a different brand of it.

He wanted to come home from school and fly right into Dean’s arms, he wanted to kiss Dean’s lips, and feel his skin—all of it, everywhere. He wanted it to be a natural thing for him to curl up in Dean’s arms at night. He wanted it all, he wanted everything.

And for that, he was scared.

He was scared because of how easily it would be for Dean to find out, and then for Dean to hate him. Oh, how Dean would hate him. Despise, even. Sam knew he wouldn’t be able to do it, he wouldn’t be able to look into Dean’s eyes and see disgust.

So he’d stay quiet, he’d keep this his dirty little secret.

 _Dean can’t ever know,_ he thinks, as he curls closer. _No one can know._

Dean presses his chin to Sam’s hair. “Sleep. You deserve a day of sleep.” Dean mumbles.

Sam traces a _yes. You too._ onto Dean’s chest.

Dean laughs. “Whatever you say, Sammy.”

Hesitantly, Sam draws a heart on the inside of Dean’s wrist, before freeing it once more. Their symbol for, _I love you._

Dean smiles into Sam’s hair.  “Love you too, Sammy.”

 _Yeah,_ Sam thinks. _If only it were enough._

-

“Sam, I’m heading out.” Dean winces as he says the words. They’d just woken up a short two hours ago, and Dean felt horrible for leaving Sam alone, but he had to do it. He knew that with Sam at school, it’d be too scary for him to even consider the possibility that Sam could be a possible target—even though he already knew it was true. He just hoped that whatever it was was easy to find and even easier to kill. “I’m going to go pick up the Chinese.” It wasn’t a complete lie.

They _did_ order Chinese food for their lunch—but Dean was doing more than picking it up. He was going to check the library for some possible information, and while he was there, he’d call Bobby, and hope for some insight.

Sam looks like he knows Dean is up to something, but he doesn’t have any proof, so he nods carefully. _Okay._

“Lock the door behind me, and remember--”

 _Don’t open up for anyone,_ Sam mouths clearly, with an eye roll. _Thanks, Dean, I know. I’m not five._

Dean grimaces. _No,_ he think to himself, hand paused on the doorknob. _You’re fifteen, and that makes you vulnerable to whatever it is out there, killing things._

And that scared the hell out of him, like nothing else ever had.

-

15 dreadfully slow minutes later, Dean is parked in the library parking lot, and his cell is ringing, he’s praying Bobby decides to pick up.

“Dean?”

“Yeah, Bobby. It’s me. Look, is my dad around?” He knew that his father had told him they were working the case together, and for some reason, Dean didn’t want John around when he confessed everything to bobby. He mostly just didn’t want John to see him asking for help. This case was supposed to be his alone—but he _knew_ this was bigger than just him and with Sam potentially on the line, the stakes were raised impossibly high, and he needed help.

Bobby sounds amused. “I left the case.”

“What, why?” Dean asked, his eyes widening. He could imagine how livid that must’ve made his father. He only wondered why Bobby would do such a thing—he knows that no hunters leave a job unfinished.

“Because your daddys a stubborn son of a bitch, that’s why.” Bobby said, his tone resolute. “And I think he was on edge because of the hunt around you and Sam. He kept talking about Sam…and not in a good way. I couldn’t take it.” He rumbles.

Dean’s vision flashes red. “He just doesn’t get Sam. He’s never tried to.”

“I know, son. He was never eligible for the father of the year award—far from it.” Bobby sighs. “He can handle this case on his own. I think he just wanted someone to listen to him rant. And I couldn’t do that—I’m not a damn therapist.”

Dean taps the steering wheel lightly, to exert some of his nerves. “Right,” He muses. John always did run his mouth about things that pissed him off. The fact that this time he was talking about Sam didn’t settle well at all with Dean—but there were bigger fish to fry.“ Anyway, Bobby, I was calling about--”

“The case, I assume?”

“Uh, yeah.” Was it that obvious? “Look, Bobby, this thing, whatever it is, is bad. Three victims, all around Sam’s age, and I’m scared that….” He couldn’t say it out loud, as if that confirmed the possibility and made it all too real. He was in over his head.

“I know. I’ve already read up on it so I knew a little something by the time you called.” Bobby murmurs gently. “It’ll be okay, Dean. John doesn’t think Sam could hurt a fly but the kid can defend himself if he has to.”

“I just want this thing dead as soon as possible.” Dean concludes. If it’s dead, it couldn’t hurt Sam—or any other poor teenager.

“I agree. So, I did a little digging.” In the background, Dean can hear pages flip rapidly as Bobby searches for something. “And it—whatever it is—has the same track record of kidnappings in this town. Ever 12 years, the exact same ages, in the same order, the same genders, even—missing. The first one was 17. The next, 14 years old. And then 16. In the past, though, there are always four. Four missing teenagers.”

“Well, how old is the last one?” He prays for an answer that won’t confirm his fears.

Of course, he’s a Winchester, and he should’ve known.

“The last teenager is always,” Bobby pauses, Dean can hear him swallow. He’s scared to say it, too. “Always a male. 15.”

Dean closes his eyes, tight. “ _Dammit,_ Bobby. Dammit. How many 15 year old boys do you think are in this damn tiny town?”

Bobby’s voice is barely audible it’s so quiet when he speaks next. “Not enough.”

“Sam doesn’t have a very good chance, does he?” Dean whispers, eyes shut.

Bobby clears his throat. “Let’s not think about that. We’re just going to kill the bastard before he can even think about laying a hand on Sam or anyone else in this town.”

Dean tries to believe, for a single moment, that it’s possible the Winchester’s will come out of this unscathed. “You’re right,” He says, his own words sounding empty and dead. “We can do this.”

He half believes it, even. He can do this. He’s a hunter.

But the doubt was still there, like a black plague, or a cloud, hovering over Dean’s head.

 _Always trust your gut,_ John would say. _A hunter always knows._

Dean’s gut was telling him to pack Sam up and get the hell out of dodge or else he’d really, really, regret it.

Instead, he lifts his chin. “Thanks for the info, Bobby. I’m going to go to some research and I’ll call you if I find anything.”

Bobby says something that sounds like a goodbye and Dean hangs up, tucking the phone back into his pocket, putting it on loud in case Sam texts him.

And with that, he enters the library, hoping for the best, expecting the worst.

-

Sam’s fingers are careful against the keys of his cell phone, as he types a message, directed to Dean. He’s scared, but he tries not to panic until his fears can be confirmed.

**_Sam says:_ **

**Dean, where are you? No Chinese food takes an hour to pick up. Is everything okay?**

The reply comes in just seconds later, like Dean was holding his breath for Sam to text him.

**_Dean says:_ **

**Uh, I know. I kind of sort of forgot about the Chinese food. I was running errands. I’m coming back right now. With Chinese.**

Sam is immediately suspicious—after all, what kind of errands could Dean possibly be doing that he wouldn’t just outright tell Sam?

It was then he knew something was wrong.

**_Sam says:_ **

**What errands?**

**_Dean says:_ **

**Just some stuff.**

Sam presses his lips together. Whatever Dean was hiding, he’d find out.

**_Sam says:_ **

**Just hurry.**

**P.S**

**You owe me an explanation when you get back.**

This time, there’s a 5 minute pause before Dean’s message comes through to Sam’s phone.

**_Dean says:_ **

**Yeah.**

Nothing else—just _yeah._ At least Dean isn’t trying to deny the fact that he has been keeping something from him.

It hurts more than it should. Sam knows it’s probably something small—maybe Dean was just picking up orange juice at Walmart or something and ran into a cute girl that distracted him from the Chinese food and his worried teenage brother. But it stings like nothing has ever stung before. It hurts because they’ve _always_ made it a rule to never keep things from each other.

But he was going to explain—he’d agreed to it, right? Sam would make him explain. Sam would make him see that he’s not just some helpless little kid who can’t handle the truth.

-

“Sam, I’m back.”

The voice startled Sam out of his doodling, and he closes his notebook and turns to face his brother, jaw set.

Dean looks tired—exhausted, even—with bags under his eyes Sam could’ve sworn weren’t there when he’d left here not too long ago. His hands have a slight tremor to them as they clutch the two bags of Chinese food, and he toes off his shoes and slugs his way to the dining table, where Sam is, and takes the seat across from him. “Dig in.”

Sam had already prepared his question, down on the sheet in his notebook, and he flips to it, pointedly staring at Dean.

**You said you’d explain. I know you weren’t just _running errands._**

Dean really does look older, like he’s seen too much. Sam has seen that look before, whenever Dean and John get into a fight, Dean looks like that, and his green eyes get really heavy and sad looking, and Sam normally just wants to hug him until it goes away, but now, he doesn’t touch Dean. He wants answers, and he wants to know why he’d been lied to.

“Sammy, trust me, you don’t want to know. I’ll take care of it. You don’t need to worry about it.” Dean sighed. His voice sounded old, too. Worn, and weary, and old. Dean is only 19, but in that moment, he seemed much more ancient, someone who was 40, trapped in the body of a teenager.

Sam’s hand is fast and fluid across the paper. **Don’t tell me what I want. I want to know, and I deserve to know. You know I do.**

Dean pressed his lips together at that. Sam knows that Dean can tell just by looking at his face all the messages he is conveying but it somehow feels better to write them down—it helps him channel some of his emotions.

“Fair enough,” Dean muses, letting out a small breath. “You really want to know? Even if it’s scary?”

Sam nods quickly, feeling exasperated. Of _course_ he wanted to know. His entire life was scary, so why would Sam suddenly be afraid now?

Not to say he didn’t get scared. Sometimes, Sam felt like he was living his entire life in fear—at least, when Dean’s not around. His dependency on his brother is frowned upon by most, including their father, but there is no way he can help it now. It’s been 15 years in the making with no one really there except Dean, and he’s rarely without his brother.

Dean tightens his jaw and relaxes it twice before he answers. “Dad called yesterday.”

Sam purses his lips, his face open and waiting for Dean to continue. _And?_

“And there’s a hunt in this area.” Dean winces out, as if the words actually physically hurt him to say.

Sam feels nothing but mild excitements fill his chest. He writes a fast note: **Together. We can hunt, De. You and I. Partners.**

Dean’s face as he reads it sends chills down Sam’s spine—he looks as if his worst fears had just come true.

 _Maybe they had,_ Sam thinks to himself, as he drops the pen and curls his arms protectively on his lap, shoulders slumping forward all at once. _Maybe he doesn’t want to hunt with me because I’ll only slow him down._ It made sense.

“No, no way.” Dean says. “You’re not hunting this thing with me. I don’t want you to hunt this with me. No way in _hell._ ”

Sam flinches, not writing anything more, trying to make himself as small as possible so maybe Dean wouldn’t say anything else.

He can take rejection from people at school, from strangers, from other hunters who look at John with sympathy for having such a stupid son, ( _how hard can it be to talk, really? Why don’t you just put him into some therapy or something?)_ He can even take it from his father. But not from Dean. Dean is the _one_ person who he _just can’t_ take rejection from. Dean has never done that to him, it seemed impossible, the very idea of it. Dean’s always been his biggest (and sometimes only) supporter, his constant, his best friend, his guardian. His arms are the only place Sam dares to call home.

And now he was telling Sam he _didn’t want him._

It made him both hurt and extremely angry at the same time and he didn’t know how to deal with it properly, so he just sat there, praying Dean wouldn’t say anything else. He couldn’t take it if Dean said _anything else._

“Sam? What is it?” Dean asks suddenly, his voice changing to that concern he’d heard so often in his lifetime. But Sam doesn’t fall for it now. Dean’s words had already left scars. “What did I do? What’s wrong?”

Sam’s hand limply grabs the pen so Dean stops asking questions, because he knows Dean will keep asking until he has an answer he’s satisfied with.

**Don’t want me.**

Dean blinks. “What?” He chokes, his eyes widening in shock. “Sam, I didn’t mean it like that! I said I don’t want you hunting with me, because it’s too _dangerous_. I don’t want you to get hurt. It’s not that I don’t want you around in general. Of course I want you around, idiot. We’re all each other has.”

Sam raises his head, eyes holding a question of, _really?_ He was afraid to believe the words, yet he wanted to so desperately.

“I mean it,” Dean nods. Sam can tell, only because he’s known Dean for so long, and so well, when he is or isn’t lying, no matter what a small lie it may be. And he isn’t lying about this. Not this. “I don’t want you hunting with me because it’s dangerous.”

And Sam is a little relieved, for a moment, and then anger takes over, as he realizes that that answer wasn’t much better. His eyes harden and he straightens up, as he writes in hard, choked jabs of the pen across paper.

**Not fair. I can do it.**

Dean’s own eyes darken in response to the retaliation. “No, Sam. I’m not letting you get involved in this. Whatever this thing is, it’s dangerous, and I’m not letting you get hurt. I’ve promised to keep you safe too many times to let you do this. You’re just a kid.”

And that, _that_ really got him.

When Dean was his age, he was already going out with John to hunt the things that lurked in the night, independently sewing up his own wounds, drinking beer, killing and hunting and hunting and killing and _constantly putting himself in danger._

 John has never, ever taken Sam out on a hunt with him. Has never even offered.

Never mind the fact that Sam knows a hundred different types of supernatural creatures and all the ways to kill them off the top of his head. Never mind the fact that he had an exorcism memorized by the time he turned 8. (not that he’d be able to ever recite it, but _dammit,_ it felt _important_ to know). Never mind that he can win at sparring with Dean if he really tries hard enough. It doesn’t matter.

It doesn’t matter that Sam can run a four minute mile, or that he can hit the center of a target with a knife from 60 feet away without blinking. It doesn’t matter that his gun skills are near perfect. It doesn’t matter that he’d be just as good as a hunter as Dean. It never mattered.

He’d wondered why endlessly, and finally one day, he’d asked, he’d written it down on a piece of paper and handed it to John, and he’d steeled himself for whatever snarky reply came back.

His father must have read over that question 20 times, for the length of time he’d stared at it.

_Dad, why don’t you ever take me hunting? Is it because I’m not good enough?_

Sam expected to be yelled at, or maybe even slapped—but neither of those things happened. Instead, John looked very grave and old as he met Sam’s gaze, saying, “You can’t scream for help, son. How am I supposed to know if you’re ever in danger? How can I save you if I never know if you’re hurt?” And then his father began to cry, and 12 year old Sam was left feeling numb.

Today, 15 year old Sam is no longer that confused little boy he was just 3 short years ago. He’s braver. He’s stronger. He can do this.

**I’m not a kid, Dean, and you know that. You know I’m not. When you were my age, you were already an experienced hunter.**

Dean tightens his jaw. “That’s not fair. This is different. You’re different.”

Sam flinches like he’d been slapped, his hand going limp, the pen falling from his fingers to clatter on the table beside the notebook. _Different._ It was one step away from being called a freak, and it _hurt._ But Sam wasn’t a vulnerable child. He was stronger. He could rise above this.

Its times like these when he wishes he could yell, just to emphasise his point. He settles for viciously underlining every word as he writes in choppy, sharp motions, his agitation showing in the sharp lines of his printing.

** Because why, Dean? Because I can’t talk? You think I _chose_ this? That I _like_ being this way, unable to communicate anything without a pen and a paper or sign language? You think I enjoy being a freak? Do you? Because I don’t. It sucks. And it sucks even worse that you think it will hold me back from hunting.  **

He pushes the notebook to Dean and folds his arms over his chest, lightning and thunder flashing in his eyes as he watches his brother read his words.

“Sam,” Dean says gently, in that overly patient voice Sam _hates_ when people use—it sounded like Dean was trying to talk to some stupid child, that wouldn’t understand a word unless he spoke slowly and calmly. “I wasn’t going to say that. I was going to say _innocent._ You’re innocent, Sam—you haven’t seen the things I have, and I don’t want you to. You deserve to stay pure.”

 **It’s my life.** Sam replies on the paper. **And I want to do this. So don’t shut me out like I’m too dumb to understand. I get it. I want to help. I’m good at research, and you _know_ I’m good with fighting and handling a gun. **

Dean swallows, looking extremely conflicted for a moment before he nods, pushing aside the Chinese that was long forgotten. Sam had lost his appetite and he guessed Dean had too. Fighting with each other had always made them both uneasy—it was such a rare occurrence that it never settled well.

“Okay.” He says, looking resolved. “If you can pin me down for 10 seconds, I’ll let you do this with me. But I need to know you can handle yourself.”

Sam grins at the challenge, rolling up the sleeves of his flannel shirt, moving to the living room and getting into fighting stance, showing Dean he was _ready_ for this.

Dean moves a couch out of the way to give them more space before he nods, all business, standing on the opposite side of Sam. “Okay,” He breathes calmly, nodding as he gestures towards himself with a hand. “Come at me.”

Sam doesn’t need to be told twice. He launches himself at Dean, and Dean hits the ground, as Sam hears the breath rush out of him. Dean is still for a second and Sam freezes, worried he’d hurt him, but before he can check his pulse, Dean is rolled them so he’s on top, straddling Sam’s hips and pinning him to the ground.

“Ha!” He says in victory, a huge grin leering over Sam. “Gotcha!” 

Sam tries not to think about their crotches pressed together but he is, and as he shuffles to attempt to get away from Dean, the friction makes him let out a soft sigh, as he lifts his hips and arches into the touch, just a slight catch of his breath, just a twitch of his pelvis-- it wasn’t much, but Dean hears it, and he freezes. And then it becomes a lot, because Sam is achingly hard, and it’s obvious that he wants this to go further.

Sam imagines his face to look something like a deer caught in the headlights of a speeding vehicle. Helpless, and scared.

Dean looks shocked for about half a second, before he rolls off Sam, and clears his throat. “See?” He says his voice lilted as he avoids looking at Sam and instead eyes the carpet like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. “I win.”

Sam gets to his feet less than gracefully, painfully aware of his growing erection. He nods to Dean, admitting defeat and trudges towards the bathroom to take care of the tenting in his jeans.

Once the door is closed, Sam wastes no times pulling out his dick and jerking himself off hard and mercilessly, thinking about Dean against him, Dean’s voice, Dean’s eyes, his lips….his hands.

Sam was coming in minutes, biting down on the meaty part of his thumb to keep himself from crying Dean’s name.

He cleans himself up, washes his hands, and flushes the toilet to make it seem like he had just been going to the bathroom before he re-emerged.

When he did, Dean was gone, and in his place, on the counter, in one of Sam’s notebooks, he’d left a note.

**Needed some air. Gone to check out more about the hunt. Don’t wait up. Sorry for kicking your ass. Maybe.**

**-DW**

\--

He had to get out of there, he had to. There was no way he could take this sweet torture—he could hear all too clearly the slick sounds Sam makes as he jerks himself off and the visuals Dean is getting is making it hard to breathe, as he dick fills, pressing against his jeans and demanding relief be had.

He knows that if he sees Sam come out of that bathroom red faced and breathing hard, looking sated, smelling like sex on a stick, he won’t be able to control himself—he’d press Sam up against a wall and kiss him until his lips were red and puffy like after he eats a cherry popsicle.

Dean swallows. This is his little brother he’s talking about. His _underage_ little brother.

Still, he can’t shake the thoughts from his sick head, so he writes a quick note in the open notebook on the counter, grimaces at the uneaten Chinese, hoping Sam will at least get something into his system, and he leaves, getting into the impala and tearing ass all the way across town, hands gripping the steering wheel tightly.

He had to get his mind off Sam or else he’d never be able to go back. It seemed like it would be an impossible task, but maybe the case would provide some distraction.

He pauses to take 10 deep breaths before he picks up the phone. Earlier, Dean had discovered similar cases in other areas, the same outlines of the one here. Only, the bodies had been found for those cases…and one survivor. And the autopsy report stated that their bodies had sunk into a comatose like state. How they’d all arrived at the same abandoned warehouse or why they were all teenagers or basically anything else about the case was unknown, but just that one little bit of information would change everything.

The one who’d gotten out alive 12 years ago, just one small town over from the town of Hillside Way, where he was now, was now 29 year old Megan Peterson. And he was going to talk to her.

He had her phone number, having found it on Yellow Pages of all things. He needed answers, and a distraction from the temptation that was his little brother.

So he settles for dialing her number and pressing it to his ear, holding his breath as he hears a whispered, “Who the hell is this?”

He clears his throat. “Um, my name is Dean Winchester. Is this Megan? Megan, uh, Petersen?”

The line goes dead, so Dean calls again, his heart racing.

“Leave me alone.” Her voice is clipped and guarded.

“Don’t hang up!” Dean begs. “Please. I need your help. Please.” He says desperately.

He can hear her pause. “How did you find me? How do you know me? What do you want?”

“Yellow Pages,” He says weakly. “I found your files. From when you were kidnapped.”

She hangs up again.

Dean calls back again.

“Megan, _please,_ just hear me out.”

He takes her silence as a reluctant agreement, so he continues. “From when you were taken, 12 years ago. Megan, I think whatever happened to you, is happening here.”

She lets out a sick, twisted laugh. “Then I suggest you get far, far away from whatever town you’re in. Run, and don’t look back, Dean Winchester.”

Hope swells in his chest. “So you know what it was.”

“Normal people wouldn’t call another person an _it,_ even if that person kidnaps teenagers. _”_ She points out.

“It wasn’t a person that took you, and I know that for a fact.” Dean says with determination. He wishes they could skip past all this and get to the answers he so desperately needs.

“Listen, kid, I don’t know how you know all this--”

“Doesn’t matter. I just do.” Dean snaps.

“—but you don’t want to be stickin’ your nose where it don’t belong.”

“I’m a hunter.” Dean replies coldly. “And my brother is in danger. He’s 15 years old and that’s the last piece to the ritual or whatever this thing does. I’m not going to let him get taken. So I’ve got to kill this thing. And I need you to tell me anything and everything you know about it, so that I _can_ find it, and kill it before it hurts anyone else.”

Megan pauses. “Your brother?”

“That’s right.” Dean answers, trying very hard not to visualize Sam the way he was just minutes ago. “A younger brother. And it’s my responsibility to keep him safe.”

She considers this for three full minutes. “Fine. I’ll help you. I can give you what you need to kill the thing, but I’m not saying shit over the phone. You come to me, and then we talk.”

“Tomorrow.” Dean offers. “I already know where you are.”

“Of course you do.” Megan sounds weary. “Damn hunters.”

“Are you a hunter?” Dean wonders, frowning. If she knew about the supernatural…

“My husband is.” She says shortly, not adding anything else on the matter. “Be here by noon tomorrow, Dean.”

“I will.” He promises. “Thanks.” He moves to hang up, when he hears Megan’s voice.

“And Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“…Be careful. This thing doesn’t mess around. If you’re little brother is the last victim, he doesn’t have long until this thing comes for him.”

Dean breathes out sharply. “Right. I will.”

The line goes dead.

-

Sam stares blankly at the note, and he crumples to the ground slowly, folding over himself.

He was sick. He was twisted, and _sick,_ and now Dean knew everything that was wrong with him and some part of Sam half wondered if Dean would ever even come back at all. Maybe things would be better if he didn’t. Sam wouldn’t have to face the disgust in Dean’s eyes, or the way he’d pull away from every touch, even if Sam’s arm casually brushed against his.

He could just hear Dean’s voice now, maybe on the phone with their father, wherever he is, telling John all about how nasty Sam is, how twisted and wrong.

_You should have seen it dad. It was disgusting. I’ll never be able to look at him again. He makes me sick._

Sam opens his mouth wide and pretends to scream, wishing he had a voice to abuse in such a way, mouthing _sorry, I’m sorry, so sorry,_ over and over again, clutching his head in his hands and rocking back and forth until his jaw aches from the constant silent screams and he feels to numb to do anything but sit there and hate himself.

How could he? How could he ever be attracted to his _brother?_ Never mind everything about Dean that made him irresistible, this was _Dean,_ and Sam had fucked it all up by getting turned on by the littlest thing, and Dean had left because he couldn’t bear to see Sam’s disgusting face any longer.

Sam sat there in that little, defeated heap of his own coltish limbs for what seemed like hours, but was probably only 20 minutes, before he gathers his strength, and stands.

He couldn’t take back what he’d done, but he could show Dean that he was sorry. If Dean had left, he needed time. And time was something Sam could give. Dean needed some time to deal with the fact that his little brother was feeling incestuously towards him, needed some time to figure out the best way to break it to Sam that he hated his guts.

Sam wouldn’t be able to look into Dean’s eyes and not see the love that always shone there for him and him alone. He couldn’t see a storm of disgust in Dean’s green eyes—he couldn’t.

With heavy steps and a jaw set in resolution, Sam packs all his things into the one little duffel bag he owns, and he throws it over his shoulder.

It’s his turn to write a goodbye note.

**Dean,**

**Sorry for everything. Selfish as it seems, I hope you don’t hate me too much, but I understand if you do.  Don’t try to find me, you don’t have to do that. Just hunt. It’s what you do best. I’ll find some place to stay, I have enough money. I wish I wasn’t so gross. I wish none of this had happened.**

**Sorry again.**

**-SW**

He considers adding more—Sam could write an entire essay on all the ways he wishes he’d never done what he had so there wasn’t this _wall_ between them that hurt so bad he’d do _anything_ just to feel even a second of relief.

His mind was made.

He sets the pen down.

And he leaves.


	4. No Expectations On Your Whereabouts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean gets back to the motel room, to find Sam gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little angsty, so read the tags, loves!

_**“It's so much darker when a light goes out than it would have been if it had never shone.”** _

_**-John Steinbeck** _

 

 

This has _got_ to be some sort of mistake. It just has to be.

Dean’s fingers are trembling as he clutches the note tightly, like might not be real—he wishes it wasn’t—god, he _wishes._ “Sam,” He chokes, reading over the words 10 times.

No. His kid couldn’t be gone, he couldn’t just be _gone._

Dean knew it was wrong to leave, but he never would have guessed that it would have caused a reaction like this. He’s scared, now—terrified, actually—because Sam is out there, a prime victim for whatever the _hell_ this thing is, thinking that Dean hates him.

That Dean is angry at Sam for feeling the way he does.

It feels like a stab in the chest every time he thinks about it. He’s tried telling himself, _it’s okay, Sam is just a kid, that’s why he acted the way he did, he’s just ruled by hormones, it’s nothing personal, he’s not in love with_ you, _he’s in love with the way your bodies felt together—and it’s not the same thing._

But Dean knew he was lying to himself. Sam isn’t like that. He falls in love with personality over body—Dean knows that, he _know that._ So if Sam really does feel that way…

Dean’s heart flutters at the thought.

He couldn’t deal with that right now, he just couldn’t. He had to push that to the back of his mind and lock it up tight because right now, the most important thing was tracking down Sam before the thing he was unsuccessfully hunting got to him first.

It was his fault, whatever happened from here on out, if Sam got hurt—that was on him and him alone. He caused this.

The best he can do from here is to find Sam, find the thing taking teenagers, and finish the job.

The best he can do from here is make Sammy safe before he is ever in danger.

-

Checking into the motel proved a more difficult task than Sam assumed—he’d never done it before. Actually, Sam is pretty sure he’s never communicated with strangers outside of school. Dean has always been his translator in public.

Dean has always been his voice.

But now Sam is more alone than he’s ever been in his entire life, and it’s both terrifying and a little thrilling, and once he manages to get a room in a motel three towns away from Dean—it’s not as far as he should have gone, that car he hotwired had plenty of gas, but he just couldn’t find it in himself to _really_ leave—he falls into bed, staring up at the ceiling.

He wonders what Dean is doing at the moment. Maybe he’s looking for Sam—which didn’t seem too likely. Not only did Sam ask him not to, but Dean probably was glad that Sam left. Saved him the awkwardness of asking him to go, or having to leave himself. He was probably hunting, finishing up whatever case he wouldn’t share with Sam.

Whatever he was doing, Sam hoped that his face didn’t color any of Dean’s thoughts. He couldn’t imagine anything worse, than if Dean got hurt on a hunt because he was thinking about the disgusting way his little brother feels about him.

That would be the worst punishment.

-

“Dean?”

“Megan, I know I said I’d come over tomorrow, to get answers, but I can’t.” Dean says into the phone, pinching it between his shoulder and neck to hold in place against his ear as his hands typed furiously across the keyboard, hacking into hotel and motel databases within a 30 mile radius, trying to see if he recognized a name as one of Sam’s favorite aliases.

“Is something wrong?” She sounds genuinely worried, and Dean hasn’t even met her face to face, but he gets the idea that worry is not an emotion Megan feels all too often.

“It’s Sam.” He says shortly, his eyes scanning the screen. “My brother.”

“Was he taken?”

“No,” He replies, hating himself, hating to having to admit it. If Megan was anything like John—and for some reason, he can’t help but compare the two—she’d have no sympathy for him. “He ran away.”

“Dammit, Dean!” She curses loudly. “What the hell did he do that for?”

“Because of me. He thought I was mad at him for something. But I’m not mad. I just want him safe.” He hates how desperate he sounds, yet he can’t stop the panicked edge to his words. He needs Sam safe, and he needs him safe _now._

“You’ve got to find him.”

Dean closes one motels site and opens another, hoping for more luck. The cities he was in were getting further away, and he was getting more anxious by the second.

The one thing John did teach Sam how to do, was drive, and he’s been driving since he was 10, and tall enough to see over the steering wheel, so in the event that Dean or John are to hurt to drive, Sammy still could. Or, if he needed a fast getaway.

Isn’t that a kick in the ass?

“No shit, Sherlock.” Dean grits his teeth. “I’m trying.”

“Try _harder.”_ Megan growls. “This thing is going to strike soon. And if your little brother has any weaknesses, anything that would make him in anyway more vulnerable…Dean, that’s even worse.”

Dean wants to cry. Instead, he whispers, “He’s a mute.”

Megan clearly didn’t hear. “Come again?”

“He’s a mute.” Dean repeats himself. “Sammy is. He…he doesn’t talk. He can’t. Never has.”

“Dammit!” She curses again. “Then it’s decided. It wants him. It’s probably watching him right now.”

“And that’s another thing,” Dean adds, shivering when Megan mentions that it was likely watching his kid. “I need to know what this thing is. I can’t kill something if I have no idea what it even is.”

There is only a slight pause. Megan’s voice is low and rushed. “It’s called a Ghul. It’s a close relative of the Jinn—surely you’ve heard of them? They’re also called Genies in other cultures.  Just like the Jinn, they take the thing you hate most about yourself or your life, and they put you into a coma, where in your head, that one thing is changed to be everything you wanted it to be—there’s a whole other world you think is real. Some people are self-aware, and they can see they’re dreaming, others are not.” Megan says quickly. “The Ghul’s feed on not only life force, which is why the go for teenagers, but innocence, _and_ blood, and they can drain their victims of those three things in less than a week. Especially the youngest ones, the ones with the greatest weaknesses. This makes them different than the Jinn.”

Dean absorbs this all, and now it’s all too clear. Of course, Sam would be an easy target, because of his muteness, because of this life he lives. There must be so much he wants to change about his life. Now, with the guilt of what he thinks Dean thinks of him weighing on his mind, he’ll be an even easier prey.

He nods slowly, and then remembers he’s on the phone—Megan can’t actually see him. “Right. Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me. Don’t you want to know how to kill them?”

Of course. _Stupid_. He was too caught up in thinking how much trouble Sam could be in, he didn’t even think on how to _protect_ him from this danger. “That’d be great,” he says weakly. “What is it? Beheading? Silver? Iron? Salt? You name, I got it.” He declares, trying to put on a show of bravado, trying not to show just how utterly terrified he really felt, trying not to show just how much he wished things were safer for Sam.

“It’s more complicated than that,” Megan admits weakly. “It has something to do with a victim. To kill the Ghul, you need a surviving victim from it to admit that whatever their problem was that made the Ghul go after them in the first place is no longer important to them.”

Dean squints. “I’m not sure I understand,” He says weakly.

“So let’s say, for example, the Ghul kidnaps a girl because she doesn’t think she’s beautiful—like _really,_ doesn’t think so. In order to kill the damn thing, that same girl has to be rescued from the Ghul, and has to tell it that she thinks she’s beautiful. And it can’t be a lie.” Megan says, her tone confident. “If it’s a lie, the Ghul will know right away, and that will only make it stronger.”

“So I basically need to let the thing take my brother, then rescue him, and then get him to think that his muteness and his fucked up life are all okay in order to get rid of this thing?” Dean ran a hand back through his hair, squeezing his eyes shut.

Years and years of Sam being told he was a freak, years of Sam hating his life, hating his muteness, and Dean had to reverse all that in the short amount of time they’d have to catch this thing before it disappeared again? “Perfect. Should be a piece of cake.”

“Not exactly.” Megan hedged. “ _I’m_ a surviving victim of the Ghul, remember? I can do it.”

There’s a brief hesitation from Dean before he shyly asks, “Can I ask what it was that you didn’t like about yourself…or your life?”

Megan gives a little laugh, but it lacks humor, and without that, it just sounded dead. “My little sister went deaf after a horrible case of scarlet’s fever.” She says quietly. “But she never once complained. She was only three when she lost her hearing, but she never cried about it, or got upset. She just….accepted it. And it made me angry, because I wanted so much more for her than what she got. It made me furious—I was only a kid, and I didn’t understand why the world worked so unfairly. And my anger, and my hatred for the life my sister had, made me vulnerable.” Dean hears here swallow. “And that bastard took me.”

Dean shuddered. He knew there was more, and he wanted to know as much as he could, trying to imagine what Megan might look like from the sound of her voice alone, as he closes his eyes, and listens.

“I was in his hold, in that _comatose state,_ for _three weeks._ The others it’d taken with me had already died, and he was dragging out the fact that I was a fighter, that I wanted to life. I had a hell of a lot of life force. The Ghul loved that, I guess. Finally, a hunter noticed my missing persons report, the one my mother filed. He came for me. He managed to convince me that my sister, Karly, was happy with her life and I should be too. But by the time he had, the son of a bitch had already gotten away.” She whispers. “But I guess we’ve found it again, huh?”

“That’s right,” Dean rasps. “And it’s not getting away this time.”

“Damn right.” Megan sounds absolute. “I’m already on my way over to you, Dean. I should be there in about an hour and a half, if I really hurry.”

Dean raised his eyebrows, impressed. “You know where I am?”

“Hillside Way ain’t too far from here.” She replies. “The hunter that saved me was my husband, Dean. He taught me a thing or two about how to track someone down.”

“Is he with you?” Dean wonders, frowning. He could use a little experience, no doubt.

“Negative.” She replies. In the background, Dean can hear the sound of a car accelerating as she stresses the gas pedal. “He got pretty badly hurt hunting a nest of vamps down in Colorado last week. Broken leg. He’s still healin’ up.”

“A whole nest?” Dean raises his eyebrows, impressed. “Whoa,”

 Megan sounds pleased at his approval. “He doesn’t mess around.”

He lets out a low whistle. “I’ll say.”

“Are you ready to do this, Dean? To kill this thing?”

“Yes.” His voice leaves no room for argument. “I’m ready to make my brother safe.”

“Find him, and find him quick.” Megan reminds. “We just have to hope it’s not already too late.”

So Dean hopes. He hopes as he hangs up and he hopes as he tucks the phone into his pocket and hopes as he clicks on one of the aliases they’ve used before and he hopes that against all odds, his baby brother is okay.

-

“Sam, wake up.”

He can’t. He’s exhausted, his lids are heavy, weighed down by rocks it seems, weighed down by the world.

“Sam. I mean it. C’mon. Mom made breakfast.”

That makes Sam’s eyes fly open in surprise. His mother? That couldn’t be right. It’s been years since she died.

Dean is leering over him, eyes tired and grumpy, like he didn’t get enough sleep the night before.

“Sam. I’m not doing this with you all day. Get up. _Now_.” Dean pulls the blankets back from Sam. “Time for breakfast. It’s your first day of school, remember? You don’t want to be late and you know Mom won’t let you go on an empty stomach.”

Sam frowns, but he obliges, because it’s Dean, and whatever kind of strange dream this is, Dean is in it, and speaking to him—and it sounds like his mother is here too. So he’ll take it. He’ll take whatever he can get.

He trudges downstairs and stops dead at the sight of his mother—no pun intended. He doesn’t remember much about her, mostly feelings—how it felt when she held him, when she smiled, what it sounded like as she sang him to sleep.

But when he sees her standing over the stove, flipping pancakes onto a plate, real and alive and _beautiful,_ he can’t help but run over to her and hug her tight around the waist.

“Oh!” She gasps in surprise, letting out a small laugh as she reaches behind her with her free hand to ruffle Sam’s hair, her eyes sparkling. “Good morning, little man. Ready for your first day of high school?”

The word drives panic through Sam’s body, but he still feels safe next to his mother.

He taps his mother on the shoulder, and mouths, “Need any help?”

Only, he didn’t exactly mouth it.

He said it.

He opened his mouth, and he spoke. _He spoke words._

Sam can talk.

-

This isn’t real.

It can’t be real.

Dean freezes in the threshold of Sam’s motel room, his reality tilting behind his eyelids, the possibility of his Sam, his kid, his _everything,_ gone, and he realizes, _really realizes_ how vulnerable a human life is, and how easy—painfully so, in fact—it is to end it. Just a few more drugs than normal. Just a too-tight grip around the throat. Just a knife in the wrong place. Just a jump from a building high enough. It is terrifyingly easy for humans to kill each other. To think of how simple it’d be for something supernatural to take a human life…

He shudders violently, eyes wide as he drinks in the room. _Sam._

The bed is neatly made, with Sam’s duffel at the foot of it. The TV is on, a news channel broadcasting softly in the background—Sam sometimes liked background noise when he’s alone—and everything seems perfectly normal and there’s even a certain safety that comes with the school bag and binder at the table.

Dean’s radars might not have even gone off, it wasn’t for the blood.

It seemed to be everywhere—the walls, the floor, the kitchen cupboards.

His kid put up the fight of his life.

And the most horrible part was, was that Dean could _see_ it, clear as day, in his head, as if he’d been a witness. His imagination was all too willing to conquer up a sort of visual that would hurt like hell, anything to punish him for what was his own fault.

Sam would probably be studying, with that TV on just so he doesn’t have to face the silence and the fact that he’s more alone than he’s ever been in his life. He’d be trying not to think about _why_ he’s alone, because that would probably bring on a whole new set of problems he wasn’t ready to face. He’d hear a crash, maybe, or a scratch, or maybe a growl—Dean isn’t sure what kind of noise the Ghul makes but he’s sure it’s got to be awful.

Sam would get up to investigate, because that is what he does. It’s what hunters do. And then suddenly, a figure would emerge. Dean isn’t sure what a Ghul looks like, either, but he’s sure it’s got to look something like evil personified if the damn thing is willing to take his kid away from him in a way nothing else ever had before. Sam would fight—God, he’d give everything. Sam wouldn’t— _couldn’t—_ scream, but he’d be mouthing things like he wishes he could just get the sound out. Dean knows, because it’s what Sam does when he’s desperate or upset or feeling any strong emotion. Maybe he’d even mouth Dean’s name, because after all, Dean is supposed to be his protector, his guardian.

And he’d failed Sam, in every way he could. He’d let Sam run away, thinking that Dean _hated him,_ and now, didn’t do anything while Sam fought for his life and was taken by a thing that wanted nothing but Sam’s life force, and his blood—and ultimately, his death.

Sam probably thought no one was coming for him, because knowing Sam, knowing how much he overthinks, he has definitely by now convinced himself that Dean hates him and probably thinks it’s better for them both if the Ghul just kills him.

And that’s if he can even remember he was taken, or if he’s already so deep in his own little paradise, he hasn’t even realized that while he’s living the dream, the Ghul is draining him of the two most important fuels to keep him alive—his blood, and his life force, while feeding off the innocence of Sam’s Bambi eyes.

-

Mary waved at him from the doorway. “Goodbye, boys! I love you! Have a nice day at school!”

Sam waved back, and because he could, because his voice was _real,_ and there, he decided to call, “Bye, mom, I love you too!” 

John waves at them as he drives away in the impala, honking twice with a big grin as he zooms past, headed to work. Sam isn’t sure exactly where John works but he’s never smiled at Sam like that before, so he doesn’t really care.

Dean just gives Mary a small smile and walks a little faster than Sam on the sidewalk, his steps sure and measured, and he walks the same way Sam’s real Dean walks, only bigger paces, like he’s trying to escape something discreetly. Maybe escape Sam discreetly.

Sam doesn’t care. He walks even fasted, jogging, really, to catch up, and then he turns to give his brother the biggest smile he has. He’s been saving this moment, made sure he’s careful not to say the syllable that means everything to him, the one, four letter word that is Sam’s only synonym for _home._

“Dean.” He says proudly, like he’d just announced he was a millionaire. He felt like one.

Dean looks down at him, not the slightest bit impressed. “What?” He says flatly.

Sam blinks. He hadn’t been expecting an answer, really, and he definitely hadn’t been expecting the condescending tone of voice this Dean uses. _His_ Dean never speaks like that to him.

“Um,” Sam wants to continue speaking to Dean, so he wracks his brain for something to say. “I’m nervous about school.”

“No you’re not.” Dean says dryly. “I’m not in the mood for this, Sam, okay? So just please, don’t.”

“Don’t what?” Sam asks, hurt.

Dean glances at him, and that look is cool and calculated and Sam has never seen that sort of disregard in Dean’s eyes directed at him and it startles him so bad he stops in his tracks.

“What the hell are you doing?” Dean growls after a moment. “We don’t have time for this shit. Get walking. Now.”

“Why are you like this?” Sam says, his voice breaking. “Why’re you doing this to me?”

“What?” Dean sneers. “Not falling for your little pity act? Sorry, Sam. I just don’t think you’re that special.”

Sam shivers at the cold edge of Dean’s voice and cowers back like he’d been slapped, though it hurt a lot worse than if a hand had connected with his cheek. “Please don’t.” He’s never heard his voice sound broken, and he doesn’t like the way it lilts and trembles along with his frame.

Dean’s face changes when he sees Sam start to shake. “Sam, are you okay? Are…are you cold? Do you want my sweater?”

Sam sticks up his chin, curling his smallish hands into fists, unable to stop the little bit of relief that flows through him at Dean’s concern. What a selfish thing he is, craving attention and affection from his brother the way he does. If Dean is not focused on him, it’s like Sam isn’t happy. And that’s unacceptable. He has his _voice,_ he should be letting Dean do whatever he wants because Sam can talk and that’s pretty damn amazing and he should be freakin’ ecstatic about the life he has in this strange dreamland he doesn’t understand, and still...

Still, he can’t just _drop_ the way he wants Dean to love him.

“I’m fine.” He replies shortly. “I don’t know why you’re acting this way, but I’m okay.”

Dean narrows his eyes. “I’m not acting anyway. Brat.”

“Jerk.” Sam scoffed, staring down at the toes of his converse shoes as he treads against the pavement.

“Bitch.” Dean answers with a snort.

Something about the way Dean delivers the insult doesn’t make it seem like an insult at all. There’s a certain fondness to it that warms Sam just a little. It’s not much. Hardly anything, really.

But he’ll take it.

-

Despite all the horror of the bloodied room Dean is frozen in, his eyes manage to pick up on something he’s never seen before.

A journal.

Sure, it looked just like the 12 others Sam has. The cover was black, spiral bound, nothing fancy. Except something about it tipped Dean off—it was full.

Open, on the dresser beside the bed which hadn’t gotten a chance to have been used, the notebook didn’t look like the different kinds of scrawl that always adorned the pages—this writing was consistent. There was no choppy printing, where Sam’s agitation shows in his writing. There is no loopy cursive, like when Sam is tired or weary. The handwriting is all the same—efficient, quick. Like Sam just stuck his pen to the paper and started writing without filters.

Curious and heartbroken at the knowledge Sam is gone—needing a piece of his brother to keep his spirits up, Dean crosses the room and sits down on the bed, his hands reaching for the journal, eyes already starting to read before it’s even settled in his lap.

The most recent entry is terrifying. Today’s date is scribbled at the top in the right hand corner of the page.

**Dear J,**

**I really messed up today. More than I usually do. Dean isn’t going to forgive me this time, not for this. We were fighting. About something stupid—the hunt that he’s working on, and the fact that he thought I wasn’t capable of doing it. Maybe it’s not _stupid_ —after all, I can’t live my life being treated like I’m 4 years old, but it wasn’t important enough to lose Dean over. And I think that’s exactly what I’ve done. We were only sparring, joking around a little, even. And then I got ahead of myself, and all those things I’d been feeling for so long…they all just rushed out, because Dean was so _close_ and _there,_ and he was looking down at me and I was looking up at him and our bodies were pressed together and my body had a mind of its own, for what it wanted. Dean left, and I can’t blame him for it. He said he only needed air but I half wonder if maybe he didn’t plan on coming back at all. I couldn’t blame him for that either. After all, who would want to come back to take care of a mute, incapable 15 year old boy who’s in love with his**

And it ends, right there, just like that—and Dean realizes he was wrong. Sam wasn’t doing homework or studying when that son of a bitch came to take him. He was writing—he’d been writing this entry, thinking about how much Dean probably hates him…not even able to write down the last, precious—and yet most jarring—word.

Dean knew what Sam was going to write. The last missing word.

It was brother. He knew it, it’s not news. He figured it out a while ago that Sam loved him more than he should.

He wasn’t angry or repulsed or anything like that.

He was worried. Insanely so.

Because it just so happened that this had been a long time coming. He loved Sam more than he should too.

A lot more. He just never thought that Sam would ever feel the same. Dean is…he’s a grunt, compared to Sam.

Beautiful, smart, kind, caring _Sam._ And Dean is just a guy who was lucky enough to be his big brother and get a place in his life and at the same time cursed with the title that means they could never be together.

 _Focus, Winchester._ Dean tells himself fiercely. _There are bigger problems than your incestuous nonexistent love affair._

He knows that. He knows that Sam is out there, somewhere, wherever that damn thing decided to put him—bleeding, hurt, hope destroyed, his faith in Dean as his protector lost long before he was even taken.

He can do nothing until Megan gets here—she is his only weapon against his new biggest enemy.

He flips back to the very first page of this journal, the date informing Dean that this journal started almost exactly one year ago to date.

Hating himself for invading Sam’s most intimate thoughts, yet unable to stop, he starts reading.

**Dear J,**

**I’ve decided that writing is an escape from reality for me, and since my reality is pretty shitty, I think keeping a journal will benefit me in a lot of ways. I’m going to call you J. J as in journal. I say journal because diary sounds really girly and silly and Dean would totally kill me if he ever found out I kept a _diary._ So this is a journal. Dad has a journal, so those must be more manly. I think I’ll write about everything important here, or maybe things that don’t seem very huge at all, but are things I don’t want to forget. Like car rides at night with Dean in the backseat with me, my head in his lap, watching the night sky from the impala’s windows, wondering where we were headed to next and wondering if everyone would hate me there, too. Or like walking home from school after a long day of being mistreated and misunderstood, there with Dean, as he tells me about his day and asks about mine. I don’t have to mouth anything at him, most of the time. He just reads my face like I’m a book and nods, and puts his arm around me and says something about how growing up can be tough but it’s not the end of the world. I don’t want to forget stuff like that. Not ever. Neither of us speak about high school next year, or the fact that dad wants to pull me out of school all together sometimes and others he wants to force me out of the house _to further develop my social skills_ or some bullshit like that. Whatever. Dad has never understood, and he probably never will. Who can blame him, with a freak like me for a son?**

The next entry comes three days later. Dean can’t stop reading.

**Dear J,**

**Today, Dean and I went to a drive in movie together—I can’t even remember the title of it. Some old black and white film. I didn’t pay attention at all, too focused on him and the sound of his breathing to really watch, but it was a nice escape from everything, and I’ll never turn down time with Dean. Since he’s been leaving for longer periods of time for hunts, alone time with him is few and far between. He took me out to distract me, I think. I think he could tell that today had been pretty discouraging for me. There isn’t really even a good reason why, most of the time. On days like today, especially. I just, sometimes….my brain works pretty fast, J, and it’s constantly overanalyzing and overthinking and sometimes I can be perfectly happy and other times I can just think myself into this pit of depression so deep I’m almost sure I’ll never get out. It could be about something small, like someone giving me a face after they realize I’m mute. Like someone talking to me slowly, like I’m a dumb child. Like someone giving me that face that just shows how bad they feel for me. Sometimes I think it would be better if I could just get away, somehow. But where can one possibly go to escape themselves?**

Dean closes the journal abruptly, breathing as hard as if he’d just run a marathon. Sam, and all Sam’s heavy weighted feelings, crushed Dean, made him feel weak and helpless.

He has to know more. Until Megan gets here, there isn’t much he can even do. But he can do this. He can read, and he can learn more about his kid. Sam’s innermost thoughts are a captivating place where he wants to reside forever. He slowly opens the journal again, flips to the page where he just was, eyes paused on the next entry, not letting himself read it just yet.

With shaking fingers, he pulls out his phone, and texts Megan the address of Sam’s motel, along with the room number.

He would be here a while.


	5. Although Disguised, I Know You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Megan shows up, and she and Dean go the warehouse, determined to get Sam back.

 

_**"This pouring thoughts out on paper has relieved me. I feel better and full of confidence and resolution.” -Diet Emans,** _ **Things we couldn't say**

**-**

“Um, Dean?”

“ _What,_ Sam?” He growls, hesitating on the last step of the school entrance to glare over his shoulder at Sam,his knuckles white as he grips the straps of his backpack.

Sam eyes the big place doubtfully, his gaze traveling over the red brick, the windows, the large yard with picnic tables. “Never mind.” He sighs.

Dean was grumpy. He wondered if this Dean was always this way, or if maybe he’s like this because he just didn’t sleep well last night, or he’s angry about having to go back to school. There is no way to know for sure.

“You’re class schedule is in the side pocket of your backpack.” He says begrudgingly. He pauses, and then offers a smile, a warm one, that Sam nearly squeaks at—he _can_ squeak now, after all—but instead he decides to just return the smile. “Have fun, kiddo.”

Sam nods, his chest spreading with the kind of warmth that only ever comes when Dean smiles at him. “I will,” he says softly.

And with that, he opens the doors to the school, and slips inside.

He doesn’t know what school will be like, in this odd place, but he’s ready, for whatever.

He can do this.

He can.

-

Dean is halfway through the journal.

**Dear J,**

**The fourth of July is not usually anything special. I mean, it’s always just…another day. A lot of people get excited about it—they’re so damn patriotic. But it’s hard to get excited about this place, this country…even the state we’re in, when it all just feels like some sort of trap to keep me from doing anything with my life. This fourth of July was different. It was different, because I felt _alive._ Dean took me out to a field, around 10pm—so that the sky was just the right shade of darkness. We’d picked up a bunch of fire crackers and fireworks before, and he took out the lighter, and we watched the sky fill with all these brilliant colors and lights. It wasn’t like I’d never seen fireworks before---that’s not it at all. It just feels different when _you’re_ the one setting them off. It makes you feel…real. Sometimes I wake up in the morning and I’m asleep the whole day—not really taking in what’s happening. When I told Dean about this, he’d shrugged and told me it might be some sort of defensive mechanism. I guess it makes sense—when you’re asleep, you’re numb. So staying in a dead sort of state keeps you from getting hurt, from feeling things. But last night wasn’t like that. I was awake, and I was _there,_ and _real,_ and I was smiling as Dean laughed along with me, and we laid back on the grass and looked up at the sky after we’d set all the fireworks off. I wanted to stay like that forever, Dean beside me, the cool grass against our backs, the impala parked behind us—and stars. Endless stars. I remember learning about them in science class, how the stars we see today could be dead, could have died ages ago, before we were even _born_. But because of how long it takes for light to travel…we’re seeing the ghost of stars that long ago burned out. And I think that’s wonderful. I watched the smoke from our fireworks, the ghost of the brilliant light that had been there before. I felt like it was almost the same thing.**

Dean swallows, flipping the page. He remembers that fourth of July, and it was one of the best moments of his life. Sam looked so beautiful under the lights, the fireworks reflecting in his eyes. And when he smiled, it felt like _freedom._ Like they were infinite, and they’d always be that way. Immortal.

Dean doesn’t get poetic about much, but he could write about that night for pages.

Megan should be here any second, but until she was, he just had to keep reading.

**Dear J,**

**It’s getting worse. I thought before I could control it, I thought before it would just be a _thing_ I had to deal with, just something that made me weird and a freak, but never something that could get this out of control. I’m not supposed to get an instant hard on the second Dean comes out of the shower, wrapped in a towel and dripping wet. I’m not supposed to lose my train of thought because he’s smiling at me. My heart is not supposed to skip a beat when he calls me baby boy, or any other of his stupid pet names. I’m not meant to like it when he holds me after a nightmare. I’m not supposed to crave his presence like the very best type of drug. I shouldn’t feel this way about my own brother, J, but I do. I _do_ and it just catches me off guard sometimes. Like I’ll be doing homework, and Dean will just come sit beside me and watch me like he’d never get sick of it and it hits me like a tonne of bricks, knocking the breath out of me and making me feel vulnerable to whatever Dean wants. I wish I didn’t feel this way. Loving someone who you know could never possibly feel the same is like throwing yourself off a cliff against your will, knowing that the person at the bottom, the one you’re in love with, could either step away, and let you die, crashing into the unforgiving ground, or they could throw an air mattress out to help break your fall. You’d still end up with a hell of a lot of broken bones, but it’d be better than nothing. Letting you down easy. Both options will hurt, but one is fatal, the other, just extremely painful—a life with a broken heart.  It scares me how much power Dean has over me and he doesn’t even know it. I’m glad he doesn’t know it. He would hate me if he did, if he knew how much I really care for him. Everything would be ruined.**

“Dean?”

Dean shuts the journal fast, like a 13 year old caught with a skin mag. There’s a woman standing in the doorway, and Dean takes a moment to admire her, and all her fierce glory.

She’s beautiful, with fire red hair, straight as a blade, that ends just shy of her shoulders, blazing green eyes, and milky skin, marred only on the left side of her face, where a nasty looking scar adorned the length of her cheekbone. She’s wearing a leather jacket with dark jeans and combat boots, a bag slung around her shoulders. He can see an anti-possession tattoo on her collar bone when she tilts her head at him. “You _are_ Dean, right?”

It hits him—of course, it must be Megan. He gives her a nod. “I assume you’re Megan?” He asks, almost shyly.

She gives him a crooked grin, but he can see the anxious way she holds herself. “That’s my name, don’t wear it out.”

He puts the journal back on the nightstand, and Megan’s curious gaze follows it, but she doesn’t ask any questions, and Dean doesn’t want her to.

“He was taken.” It’s not a question, as she glances around the room, seeing the blood.

“I was too late.” Dean drops his gaze into his lap.

 The way Sam wrote about him made him seem like some sort of hero. But he’s not a hero. He’s nothing more a failure. He can’t even protect his own brother, when he _knew_ he was in danger.

“He’s alive, Dean.” Megan says quietly. He raises his eyes to hers, and she offers a tentative smile. “We’ll get him back. We’ll kill this fucker. I promise.”

He nods slightly, as though he’s afraid to agree to anything. “We need to find out where the thing is keeping him.” He realizes suddenly. _Stupid._ He should have been doing that before Megan got here, instead of reading and invading Sam’s privacy.

Megan shakes her head, her red hair swaying with the movement. “Ghuls like big spaces, with lots of hiding places. When it took me, it kept us all in an abandoned factory.” She explains. “And there’s only one abandoned industrial size building in this entire town.”

Dean looks up at her, feeling young and stupid, and in way over his head. “Are you sure we can do this?”

Megan nods tightly, all hints of joy and laughter fading from those bright green eyes. “We’re going to get Sam back.”

“I know,” Dean lies. He didn’t know. He felt like he didn’t know anything, just a kid caught up in all this mess, just a kid who wanted his brother back because they had a hell of a lot to talk about. He wanted Sam. He wanted Sam safe. “Let’s go.”

“Not so fast,” Megan stopped him dead in his tracks with just a cocked eyebrow. “We’re going to need a plan. These things are a lot smarter than you might give them credit for, and it wouldn’t be smart to go in there guns blazing, not a single clue as to where the Ghul is actually keeping them. I got a floor plan of the building off the internet. It used to be a manufacturing warehouse, I think. It’s huge. It might take hours to find where the Ghul is hiding each separate body, let alone where it’s hiding itself.”

Dean knew she was right, but it didn’t make him any more pleased to be told that they had to sit down, and _plan_ like rational people when Dean wasn’t feeling the least bit rational at all. In fact, Dean is feeling pretty damn irrational—he wants to do exactly what Megan warned against—crash into the building with guns roaring, bullets pouring everywhere, until he got the thing, got Megan to tell it what was up, and then got to his baby brother, and apologized, for everything.

“Dean.”

Dean blinked over at her. “Uhm, yeah. Sorry. Let’s see that floor plan, huh?”

She walks a little closer, pulling it out of her pocket, and moving to swipe off all Sam’s books and binders to make room for it on the dining table, but Dean stops her with a short, “No!” And he rushes to remove them carefully, like they’re made of precious gold.

There’s that curious glance again, but just like before, Megan doesn’t press him for answers. She simply waits until the table is cleared, and then spreads out the floor plan, squinting at it along with Dean.

“Huge,” He agreed, his voice filled with awe. He knew exactly where this building was—something so huge in a town like this wasn’t to be missed on their way in. It was clear though why it didn’t stay open. Nothing that huge could survive in such a place. Hillside Way is a pass-through town, people just drive on through it, it’s a place for rest room breaks and gas refills. No one _actually_ wants to stay there.

“You think I was kidding?” Megan snorted at him.

Dean looks from the floor plan, to her, and back to the floor plan. “No ma’am.” He muttered. He didn’t take Megan as someone who joked around frequently, not in situations like this. “Let’s get planning.” He says, voice hardening instantly, as he stares down at the prints before him. “We’ve got work to do.”

-

 “ _Pssst.”_

Sam tries to focus on the lesson being learned from his English teacher, his first period class, and _not_ the persistent demanding of his attention from one of his classmates. He probably just wanted to throw something at him or make fun of him anyways. That’s what usually happened.

“ _Psst._ Hey! Turn around.”

Sam turns around, then, out of surprise and nothing else. “Yeah?” he asks reluctantly. “What do you want?” his tone of voice made the question sound more like a demand of _leave me alone._ Because if he’d learned anything from school, it was that if someone was paying attention to you, they wanted something. And that something was never good.

“I’m Kyle.” The boy introduces, with a big smile. “You’re Sam, right?”

Sam blinks, purely shocked that this boy, this _Kyle,_ knew his name, and was smiling at him. “Um, yeah. I’m Sam.”

Kyle’s smile grows, his eyes blue and bright. “Maybe we could have lunch together. You seem cool.”

How he could possibly seem _cool_ to this _Kyle_ character he didn’t even _know,_ he wasn’t sure. But he wouldn’t complain. He couldn’t believe that he just might be able to make a friend. “Okay,” he whispers, his mouth twitching into a small smile of agreement. “I’ll meet you in the caf.”

“Sounds good.”

Sam smiles, facing the front once more to resume taking notes.

It did sound good.

-

“I still think we should split up.” Dean argues, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration and scrubbing a hand through his hair. “We can cover more ground separately.” 

“I don’t care.” Megan says, voice hard. “You’re still a kid, Dean. And I’m not letting you get hurt on my watch.”

“Forget about me!” Dean cried. “Sam is in there, and he’s hurt! That _thing_ is _feeding_ on my little brother _right now.”_  

Megan doesn’t look impressed. “You’re no good to Sam dead.”

“Apparently, I’m no good to him alive, either.” Dean clenched his jaw tight, staring down at the detailed floor plan before him.

Megan is silent for a minute, before placing a hand on his shoulder. “You can’t keep beating yourself up for what’s already happened.” Her voice is kind, but her hand is tightening, and she gives him a rough shake. “I need you in tip top shape to come with me. Now. Are you going to sit here and wallow in self-hatred, about the things you can’t change, or are you going to help me devise a plan on how to get your brother back?”

Dean shakes free of her hand. He doesn’t want physical touch right now. “I want Sam.”

“Good. Now. If you really want to split up…” Megan sighs. “I guess that’s okay. But we’re going to have to be extra careful.”

“I don’t understand. We’re not in danger. The Ghul won’t do anything to us.” Dean argues. “We’re too old.”

Megan chortles out a laugh. “Hey!” She argues. “I ain’t thirty yet, boy! I’m still in my prime. Besides, it doesn’t matter how old we are. If the Ghul sees us trying to take away its food source, rituals can always be altered. I’m sure it wouldn’t mind eating us alive too. S’not that picky.”

Dean ignores her and plows on. How does Megan expect her to be worried about himself? Sam is out there. Alone. Hurt. In danger. That’s all he can think about.

“So, I’ll go in….here.” He points out the back entrance on the floor plan. “And you’ll enter here.” He gestures to the front door. “We’ll park on the right side of the building—there’s two doors on the right side, for easy get away.” With the same pen Sam was using seconds before he was taken, Dean circles the two doors, and writes _car_ in the lot around the building, putting X’s over the front and back doors. “I’ll scope out the left side of the building, on both floors. You do the right.”

Megan absorbs this all for a quiet moment. “Fair enough plan,” She agrees reluctantly. “But you _have_ to be careful, Dean. I mean it. If it takes either one of us, our chances of saving your brother—and all the other teenagers, if they’re still alive, decreases significantly.”

“I understand that.” He snaps. “So don’t get taken.”

It was a simple enough instruction.

-

Lunch rolls around quickly enough. He’s hungry, and excited about not having to sit alone.

Kyle, as promised, meets Sam in the Caf, nudging him playfully as they get their food. Kyle opts for a hot dog and pop, while Sam choses French fries and an orange juice. They get a seat somewhere to the right of the large cafeteria, and sit down.

“English is so shitty,” Kyle whines, opening his pop can with a loud hiss. “Don’t you think?”

Sam smiles softly, picking at his fries. “I don’t think so,” He says quietly. “I’ve always liked it.”

Kyle raises his eyebrows at that, and chuckles, muttering something under his breath.

“What?” Sam asks, looking over at him.

Kyle shakes his head innocently, a small, genuine smile on his lips. “It’s nothing.” He murmured. “You’re just…very different, Sam.”

Sam stiffens at that, his muscles locking, his eyes dropping to his lap. _Different._ It’s a word he hates. It’s right up there with _freak_ and _disabled._ Sam’s not different. He’s _not,_ not in this lovely dreamland. Here, he’s not different. How can Kyle know? Does he see something Sam doesn’t?

“Hey, relax,” Kyle chuckles, nudging Sam playfully. “It’s not a bad thing. I just mean that…” He trails off thoughtfully, letting out another light laugh. “I just meant that I’ve never met anyone like you.”

Sam relaxes visibly, melting. “Oh,” He mumbles, feeling like an idiot for overreacting. “Thanks. I think.”

“It’s a compliment.” Kyle grins. He stops short then, and starts yelling across the Cafeteria. “Hey! Kate! Lacy! Over here!” He waves his arms franticly in the air, and Sam, curious and a little worried, follows his gaze to two girls and a few boys, smiling amongst each other. They glance over when Kyle calls to them.

Kyle turns back to Sam. “You don’t mind, do you? I’m sure they’ll love you, they’re really nice. I went to elementary with them all.”

“I don’t mind,” Sam even offers up a tiny smile. His heart is beating like crazy, but he doesn’t say anything as the group moves towards them, and eventually, takes a seat at the table.

“Everyone,” Kyle addresses gleefully. “This is Sam. And he’s cool.”

That seemed to be enough for them. They nodded and smiled at him and Kyle went around the group telling Sam each of their names, though Sam knew he was probably not going to remember them. He was horrible with names, and much better with faces.

They all laugh, and talk, and Sam feels surprisingly at ease. Everything is just…easy. He isn’t trying to stay unnoticed or blend into the background. He’s engaged in the conversation, and everyone is treating him like he’s part of the group, and he _feels_ like he is, too. He feels like he really _is_ included, like he’s an important contributor to the topic of the cafs disgusting French fries, and they even end up making plans to go to the pizza place across the street tomorrow for lunch.

Sam exchanges phone numbers with everyone in the group, and the excitement in his chest at having _friends_ and being accepted fuels him and all his classes go by quickly, until he’s meeting up with Dean, to walk home.

“How was your day?” Dean asks hesitantly.

Sam glances up at him, surprised. From what he remembers this morning of the route of the walk, they’re almost halfway home, and so far, Dean hadn’t said a word to Sam, and Sam gave up trying to hold conversation, his voice defeated.

His voice. Because he has one of those now.

It amazes him.

“It was…” Sam smiles. “It was great. I met some people. Nice people.” He looks up at Dean. “You?”

Dean shrugs, kicking a rock out of their path. “It was the same as school always is. Boring.”

At least that was still the same between his Dean and the Dean in this land he didn’t understand. He still expected to wake up by Dean blasting Zeppelin or John stumbling in drunk.

When they make it home, Mary has already prepared a homemade pizza for them, with tall glasses of milk. She hugs them both when they come in, and takes extra time to ruffle Sam’s hair, cupping his face. Dean seems annoyed by that, but he doesn’t comment on it, toeing off his shoes and heading right for the pizza.

Sam smiles up at Mary. “Hi, mom.” He whispers, because he can, because his mom is here and he can talk and both those things are a miracle, so he soaks it all in.

Mary kisses his hair and pushes him in the direction of the food. “You must be starving.” She chuckles.

Sam realizes with a jolt that he _was_ starving, his stomach rumbled loudly in response and he and his mother laugh in unison about it. Dean doesn’t join in. “Go eat,” She smiles.

Sam is happy to oblige, and Mary waits until both Sam and Dean have finished off their pizza, before asking, “So. I’m dying to know. How was school?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “It was fine. It’s just school, Mom.”

“It was Sammy’s first day!” Mary protests happily. “My baby is already in high school!”

“It was good, Mom.” Sam says genuinely. “Really. I made friends, even. I like all my teachers. My classes seem great.”

Mary doesn’t seem surprised by this, and she nods knowingly. “Of course. You’ve always been a social butterfly.”

It’s not sarcastic at all, which is the part that surprises Sam. _Him?_ A social butterfly? Yeah, right. Sam hides behind Dean in any social situation, sometimes even if it’s just dinner with their father. Even though that’s happened enough times in his entire life that Sam can count them with two hands.

This life, this dream, was strange and wonderful and even scary at the same time. Sam didn’t know who Mary was. She was someone he’d heard about and remembered for himself only slightly. He was happy she was here but he wasn’t used to her and frankly, the way she seemed so happy all the time bugged him a little. No one is that smiley. Right?

He hadn’t had a conversation with dream John, but his father had smiled warmly at them this morning on his way to work—wherever that was, Sam had a sneaking suspicion that it wasn’t hunting. He hopes that John is nice, because Sam doesn’t really know what it’s like to look at your father and see pride on his face. That’s never happened in the real world before.

He doesn’t know who this Dean is—he’s never seen anything like him, in his real Dean. This Dean is cold and rude and snarky—which, okay, _yeah,_ his Dean totally is, just never to _him._ Plus, this Dean seems bitter that Sam gets all the attention, seems angry and bitter about Sam being the baby of the family, which Sam is starting to get he is. Mary clearly fawns over him. It’s a nice feeling, no doubt, but it couldn’t feel great to be Dean in those situations. It isn’t like Dean didn’t care—he did show some signs of not hating Sam completely, but it was nothing compared to the way the real Dean loves and cares for him.

And himself? He isn’t evens sure who _he_ is in this world. A social butterfly? Really? Sam avoids people, he’s an introvert on his best days, because of his muteness, there isn’t much reason for strangers to be around him, anyways. He’s only ever communicated with Dean. And making friends? That’s never happened before in this history of….ever. Dean has always ever been his only friend. And what about being favorite by parents? That’s always been Dean. Dean has always been dads little solider.

Not Sam. It was never Sam.

None of this makes sense, and the reality of it all hits Sam viciously, as he pushes away from the table and trots up the stairs quickly, locking himself in what he guesses is his room, from the army green comforter on the bed and the grey walls. He curls up on the bed, shivering though he isn’t cold. This isn’t a dream, he realizes suddenly. He doesn’t know what it is, but no dream is this elaborate, and very rarely is someone ever self-aware in a dream.

He isn’t sure what it is.

He doesn’t know if he likes it, or if it scares him, but he’ll take a bet on both.

Yeah. Definitely both.

-

There were no weapons that could physically harm the Ghul, just the way of killing them. And he needed Megan for that—so in the case that he finds the damn thing, and Megan was on the other side of the building, they agreed to keep their cellphones on call, so they could keep in touch easily.

Dean slows the impala once he can see the building appearing down the road, and someone honks behind him, frustrated. He doesn’t care, but Megan rolls down the passenger window to give that car a nice, healthy dose of her middle finger, before yelling to them something about going around them.

Dean’s too focused on the warehouse, with the boarded up windows and empty parking lot, to really worry about anything.

Sam was in there—less than 100 yards away, and stuck, _trapped,_ inside his own head. Stuck in a universe where he probably has Mary and their family doesn’t hunt and…and Dean bets he can talk.

He’d give anything, do anything, to hear Sam’s voice. He could imagine, all too well. He stays up so late, some nights, listening to the way he breathes and picturing what it would be like one day for Sam to turn the full power of those bright, hazel eyes on him, and give him a pleased little smile, to see those lips shape his name, like he’s witnessed so many times before, only this time….there’s a sound. A voice, and it’s sugar sweet and raspy from not ever being used in 15 years, but its there, and Sam would get this shocked look on his face like he can’t believe he just _spoke,_ and Dean would probably cry because he’d be so damn proud of his kid and so _glad_ just to hear his name ghosting off those lips.

He grips the steering wheel hard. Save Sam. That is what’s important.

He pulls into the parking lot and parks the car exactly where he planned he would—right between the two doors.

Megan turns to face him, her entire body towards him, her face earnest. The scar that decorates her cheek is beautiful, Dean thinks suddenly.

Before she can open her mouth, Dean opens his.

“If you’re going to give some shitty, _be careful Dean,_ speech, I don’t want to hear it.” He says hardly. “I just want my brother.”

Megan shuts her mouth, hesitates, and then nods. “Yeah. We’ll get him. But there are other kids in there too, Dean.”

“I know.” What? Does she think he’s stupid? Of course there are.

“Some of them might be alive.” Megan continues. Again, this isn’t new information for Dean.

“I know.” He repeats, jaw tight.

“We can’t leave them there.”

“I _know,”_ Dean has to refrain from punching the steering wheel, which would sound the horn, and definitely tell the Ghul that someone was around. “Jesus! I know all that, okay! But Sam comes first!”

“Dean--”

“I’m not saying we leave the other kids there to die. Christ. I’m just saying that we get Sam out first. Wake him up. Then once he’s awake, we get the others.”

Megan looks guilty, for a reason Dean can’t place, but he doesn’t ask. He doesn’t really care to know. His vision is red, and he can’t keep still. He’s going to get Sam back, make him safe. And he’ll never let him out of his sight again.

“Okay.” She agrees finally, voice soft. “Let’s go, then. Turn your phone on, and call me.” Just like they’d planned.

Dean obliges.

“Testing,” He mumbles into the receiver, and Megan nods. The sound was good. She does the same, and Dean nods at her—his sound was good too. He glances over at her one last time, before they get out the impala, and head towards the building.

Head towards Sam.

“Well, shit.” Megan curses, after trying to door. The knob had fallen off, long ago, clearly, and it wasn’t budging when she pressed her full weight against it.

“Move back.” He barks. He knows that it’s a little funny, a 19 year old telling a 29 year old what to do. But Megan obeys, stepping away. Dean isn’t sure he can do this, but he’s sure that it’s the only way inside. The only way to Sam…so he doesn’t have a choice. This is what he’s got to do.

He backs up a few steps, and then runs at the door, jumping at the last second, and kicking, with all his force, landing in a satisfied crouch when the door falls in on itself.

He grins, glancing over at Megan, who seemed thoroughly impressed with him.

“Not bad, runt.” She smirks. Realization crosses over her features, and she stops short. “Only now, dumbass, the Ghul is going to know we’re here. That wasn’t exactly quiet.”

Somewhere in his memory of just a few short seconds ago, Dean does recall the pleasing _bang_ he heard when the door hit the ground, and he just smiles dangerously at the darkness of the warehouse.

“That’s okay.” Dean practically purrs. “I want it to know. I want it to know that we’re coming in there to kill it.” He smiles, then, only it’s more of him just baring his teeth. It’s not a nice smile, never one he’d direct at Sam.

This is the smile of a man whos brother had been ripped away from him.

He cracks his knuckles, stepping inside the darkness.

This is the insane grin of a man who’s about to get him back.

-

The warehouse is quiet—deadly so. It should be disturbing that he can’t hear anything, not even Megan, but instead, Dean just finds it calming. He has no weapons on him, not a knife, or a gun, or even holy water. Nothing would work, anyways. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel naked.

But not vulnerable. Dean is far from vulnerable, now. This thing, this _Ghul,_ has crossed some serious boundaries with him and it _will_ pay. Dean is more sure of that than he has been of anything in a long, long time.

Megan had warned him that since he kicked the door down and wasn’t quiet about, the Ghul most likely knew where they were, knew where _he_ was.

He didn’t care, he couldn’t find it within himself to be worried about his own safety.

His arms feel empty. He needs Sam.

10 minutes into the rescue mission, and Dean’s got nothing. He’s already cleared the front half of the first floor, and he heads now towards the back, his steps soft, but sure, against the concrete flooring.

It smells like death.

It didn’t, not before, but as soon as he rounds the corner, it hits him hard, so hard he struggles not to gag.

He sees a hand, limp, on the arm of a chair. Pale. Lifeless, he knows. But he’s not scared, because he knows instantly, that it’s not Sam’s.

He knows Sam’s hands maybe better than he knows his own. Those hands tell him what Sam’s words cannot. Those hands, drawing shapes and words against Dean’s chest, those fingers, tracing a heart on the inside of Dean’s wrist. Those hands, holding onto Dean as if something is trying to physically break them apart and Sam won’t have it. Those hands, always there, always writing or tracing or tapping. Dean loves Sam’s hands.

His gaze follows from the hand, down to the wrist, where there is a long, diagonal gash that, Dean assumes, with a shiver, was used to bleed the victim out. There’s a bucket below.

It’s empty, but stained red, from blood.

His gazes travels up the arm, and to the body attached. There’s what looks to be a bite mark, right on the victims neck, where a pulse would be. That must be how the Ghul gets its life force, how it feeds of the innocence.

Dean looks up to the victims face, and remembers reading the articles.

This was her, the girl. He racks his brain for a name. _Lacy._ Right. Lacy Burnabee. Just an innocent 17 year old girl. He remembers reading that she’d been out for a run when she was taken.

He presses a hand to her neck, feeling for a pulse, the skin ridged and cold, where the bite mark was.

There isn’t one. All is still.

Dean lets out a quiet breath. She didn’t deserve to die.

Her eyes, pale blue and open wide, stare up at nothing. Dean shivers again.

He’s glad they’re not hazel.

He brushes a hand over her face, and shuts her eyelids.

And he moves on.

It’s what you do, when you’re a hunter. You spot the body, you notice the details, things that be helpful while trying to kill the damn thing. And you feel a moment of sadness for the life of an innocent taken.

And you move on.

The smell of death lingers in the air, as he squints in the darkness. It’s the evening, but it’s not quite night, and the windows that are only partly boarded let in enough light that he didn’t a flash light to see.

“Sammy,” He whispers, as if Sam could ever answer him, even if he _was_ awake. But Sam can hear him, he believes that much, comatose or not. “I’m going to find you.”

And suddenly, Dean feels 10 years old, and Sam, just 6, is begging him to play hide and seek, and Dean, from day one, could never deny those sweet eyes anything, so he agrees, even though he feels a little too old to really be playing such childish games. He wasn’t, really, but he _felt_ it. Dean grew up fast.

Sam would light up when Dean agreed, and tell him to close his eyes, and Dean would, of course, even though it went against his hunters instinct, that he had even at such a young age. He’d shut his eyes and count to 10 and smile to himself when he hears Sam’s fat little feet padding away fast.

And maybe there wasn’t many places to hide in the tiny motel rooms they stayed in, but Sam’s body was just so small, he could curl himself up to fit into any crevice, and that’s exactly what he did. And Dean would pretend like he didn’t see Sam’s toes sticking out from under the bed, or hear his barely muffled giggles of delight. “Sammy…” He’d grin. “I’m gonna find you!” and he’d sneak up on Sam and take him up into his arms and tickle him while Sam shrieked and laughed and shrieked more, tears in his eyes from laughing so hard. Dean remembers he’d do anything just to hear Sam’s little baby giggles. Even as Sam got older, Dean would make a fool of himself, a slave to the flashing of Sam’s dimples, and his laughter.

He shudders, the memory slipping like water through his hands, as he remembers where he is, and why he’s here.

Dean’s phone suddenly squeaks, and he forgot he was on the line with Megan. “Dean.”

“Uh, yeah?” He whispers back. “You find anything?”

“Nothing.” She replies. “Just…nothing. And it’s so quiet in here. Exactly like it was before….when I was taken.”

“Why?” He wonders. “Shouldn’t there be some sort of sound? Anything?”

Megan sounds grave. “A lot of people speculate that the unconscious can sometimes here sounds. The Ghul probably likes to keep it quiet so that it’s victims don’t hear outside noise and start questioning the little realities he sets for them.”

“I found Lacy.” Dean murmurs, his eyes scanning the room, as Megan mentions the Ghul.

“Alive?” Megan wonders. Dean hates that her voice sounds hopeful. It sends a pang through his heart.

“No.” He whispers. “It….it wasn’t very likely. I mean, she was the first one to be taken. She’s been in here the longest.”

“Cuts on her wrists? Bite mark?” Megan wonders. He can’t hear her footsteps, even though the phone. She must move like a hunter.

“Yeah.” He replies. “How’d you know?”

“Same thing happened to me.” Megan sighed. “Okay, stay on the line. Keep your eyes peeled.”

“Yes ma’am.” Dean sighs, swallowing. Sam’s got to be in here somewhere. He just wishes he’d find him sooner rather than later, and kill this damn Ghul, so they could get out of there, ASAP. He just wanted Sam safe.

Dean nearly trips over a wire running across the floor in front of him, before he catches himself, cursing under his breath. Megan, from the phone tucked in the breast pocket of his jacket, must hear. “Dean?” She asks franticly. “Are you alright?”

“Uh, yeah. Just tripped.”

“Klutz.”

“Shut up.”

She snorts a laugh and then goes silent.

He decides he likes her enough.

He’s careful to watch where he steps now, staring at the ground suspiciously, as well as taking in his surroundings.

“Oh. Oh, god.” Megan whimpers from the phone. “I found one.”

He stops short. “Female?” He asks.

“Yes.”

Dean hesitates. “Dead.”

It wasn’t a question. There wouldn’t be such fear in Megan’s voice if the girl was alive. It must be Kate. The second one to be taken, the second body to be found.

He isn’t sure if Megan’s ever gotten up close and personal with a body, and he feels sympathetic for her.

Then again, she did say that when she was rescued, everyone was dead besides her.

He bets it probably doesn’t make it easier.

“She was only 14.” Dean whispers. Just a year younger than Sammy. “God.”

He hears a sniffle.

“Megan?”

A quick rush of breath.

“ _Megan.”_

“I’m here.”

“Are you crying?” Dean asks, shocked.

“No. I’m just…God. 14. That’s….she did nothing. She was an innocent in all this. And now she’s dead. You know?”

Dean did know. He wishes he didn’t, but he did, all too well. Megan’s husband must know too. It’s  the hunter life. You see, you grieve, and you kill the thing that is responsible. There is nothing else _to_ do.

“This thing is going to die, Megan, you hear me?” He says, new resolve in his voice. “We’re not leaving here until I have Sam, and it’s dead.”

She seems to get herself together. “Right.” She says, voice only breaking a little. The bravado she’d had before has seemingly disappeared. She sounds _young._

“Good.”

She doesn’t respond, but he hears her breathing even out on the other line, and he sighs very quietly. Maybe it was wrong to bring her, to get her involved, but he couldn’t exactly feel too guilty about it. Without Megan, he’d have no idea what this Ghul was, or how to kill it. He needed her, to get to Sam.

“There’s just one left.”

“Huh?” Megan mumbles.

“Two more. Victims, I mean. A boy. Um…Kyle? He was….” Dean racks his mind, grinding his teeth. “He’s 16.”

Megan lets out a long breath. “I hope he’s alive.”

“Yeah.” Dean agrees heatedly. “I do too.”

Eventually, he cleared the first floor, on his side, and his heart was racing. He could only hope, could only pray, that he’d be the one to find Sam, and he’d find him _alive._ He hoped that he’d be able to push his hands into Sam’s neck and feel a pulse there, steady and real and even under his hand. He hoped that Sam would wake up and hold him tight and promise to never go anywhere.

Dean wets his lips, walking up the stairs with a little less care than he had downstairs, as he gets more frantic to find his brother.

He should feel hopeful for that other one, too. Kyle. Kyle didn’t ask for this, and he’s just a year older than Sam. He hopes Kyle is alive. He just has a little more hope for Sam.

Or a lot.

“I’m upstairs, now. It was just Lacy on the first floor on my side,” Dean explains, to Megan, once he reaches the top. “Looks empty up here.” There was a significantly less amount of crates and skids and industrial stuff up here than there was downstairs. It makes Dean’s chest heave. A lot less spots to check. A lot less places Sam could be.

“I just found Kate down there.” Megan rasps back. “I’m heading upstairs, now, too. I’ll stick to my side.”

“Right.” Dean nods, even though he’s one the phone and he knows Megan can’t see him.

Dean steps over crates, and around them, and he checks in every corner, afraid for the smell of death, afraid for it to be coming from Sam. Afraid he’ll be too late. It hasn’t even been a full day, Sam should be alive, right? The Ghul couldn’t have drained him _that_ fast. Impossible. Right?

He has to believe it’s true, or he’ll lose all motive…to do anything at all. He’ll be completely useless to the world. To Sam.

Megan gasps in the phone. “Oh, my god! Dean! He’s alive!”

Dean’s chest swells with hope, with excitement, with relief. “Oh, thank god. Thank god. Where are you?” He wants to cry. Alive. He’s alive. Megan _found his kid_ and he’s _okay_ and _alive._

“I don’t think it’s Sam.” Megan says, almost fearfully. Like she’s scared for Dean’s reaction.

And just like that, his relief fades. Not Sam. But…but Megan didn’t really know what he looked like, right? And the picture he’d shown here was from years ago and Sam has changed a lot…

“What…” Dean makes himself swallow. “What does he look like?”

“Blonde hair. Tall. Blue eyes.” Megan murmurs, and Dean hears rustling in the background, as Megan clearly tries to get the not-Sam free.

“It’s Kyle.” He breathes. He wants to cry again, but only because all that relief was for nothing, and Sam _still_ had to be found. “Wake him up. Bring him to the car. It’s unlocked. Then, come find me on my side. Let’s find Sam and kill this fucker.”

“He won’t wake up.” Megan sounds guilty again.

“But he’s alive?” Dean frowned, trying to keep himself together.

“Yeah,” Megan allowed. “He’s alive. Steady pulse, even. I even used his shirt to wrap up his wrists, slow the bleeding...”

“If he isn’t awake, we can worry about that later. Just _get him out of here.”_ He demands, using the same boom of authority he’s seen Dad do without yelling.

“Don’t tell me what to do, kid.” She sounds scared.

“Megan.”

“Yeah, I’m okay. Just. I’ll be back in a minute. Stay safe.”

“Always do.” He lies softly. Her concern was sweet but unnecessary.

He hears footsteps as she retreats, her movements heavier now that she’s got an unconscious 16 year old body to drag along with her.

He hasn’t seen or heard anything that would indicate the Ghul, and Dean is suspicious, when all of a sudden, there’s a tapping sound.

And he almost falls to the ground, when his knees give out, because it’s just a small thing, three taps, and then it stops, but he knows. He _knows,_ it’s Sam.

The rhythm, the volume, everything about it, screams Sam, and Dean wants to cry because it means his kid is alive, and he knows Sam might be unconscious but he’s helping Dean, without even knowing it, and he follows the sound, his eyes watering from the relief, and when he sees him, his knees _do_ give out, and he collapses, sobbing in relief.

_Sam._


	6. If You Must Speak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being mute is still shitty, but being without Dean is shittier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to thank you guys for being so awesome with leaving kudos and commenting on this fic. It motivates me to keep writing when I'm stumped, and your support is everything to me. Please, keep it up! c: <3 x  
> ALSO! This chapter gets a little dark, with mentions of suicidal thoughts/ attempts, and plenty of self loathing to go around. Read with caution, loves.

_**"How nice--to feel nothing and still get full credit for being alive." -Kurt Vonnegut** _

_**-** _

 

Sam is still curled up in a ball, on the big bed that smells delicious, like home, somehow, when Dean walks in through the door, and stops short, watching Sam with growing rage. Or at least, that’s how Sam decides to describe it—it seems fitting enough.

“What the hell are you doing in my room?” Dean demands, crossing his arms over his chest, as his green eyes flash.

Sam blinks in surprise, even more shocked when a tear falls. He hadn’t known he’d been _crying._ “Um, sorry.” He mumbled, feeling useless. At least that feeling is familiar, unlike everything else in this damn strange world he’d slipped into.

Dean stops short when he sees Sam’s tears. “Um….you’re crying.”

“I know.”  Sam grimaces. He wipes angrily at his face. If he was feeling better, and not like complete crap, he might have made a jab at Dean for stating the obvious. Instead, he just sniffles some more, hating that he feels so weak.

“Why?”

“I don’t know where I am.” Sam replies all too honestly, too tired to lie for the sake of this dream Dean. “And…and I’m started to get a little scared that I might never make it out.”

“What? Sam, that’s insane.” Dean’s voice is close to a purr, and for some reason, it makes Sam scared. Scared—that’s new. Sam has never, _ever_ before in his life felt scared of his brother. In fact, the very idea was so absurd it was almost laughable. And yet, here he was, nervous and anxious and scared because Dean approached him like a predator might advance its prey. “You’re home.”

“This isn’t my home.” Sam sits up, and presses back against the headboard—Dean’s headboard, apparently. He wonders if maybe he and Dean got into a car accident or if he fell down stairs or something and now he’s in some sort of coma. Or maybe he was drugged, and he’s in some sort of dream. Hell, maybe he’s dying. It was the Winchester way.

Whatever it was, he wanted out, and he was sure that Dean— _his_ Dean—would want him back in the real world, too, just as much as he wanted to be there.

Because as nice as it was to have his mother, to have father’s love, to have friends, to have  this little, apple pie lifestyle, to have his _voice,_ none of it, nothing, was worth losing Dean over. He would rather endure all his real life ensues, and have Dean there to support him, protect him, than have everything he used to dream about.

Being mute is still shitty, but being without Dean is shittier.

“You don’t have a home outside of this.” Dean narrows his eyes, his lips pulling back from his teeth a little.

That’s wrong.

Well, not technically. Sam hasn’t had a roof and four walls since he was a year old, but he _does_ have a home.

His home is Dean.

Sam is tempting to flinch at the gesture, but he sticks his chin up defiantly instead. This is Dean, and no matter what strange version of him it is, Sam knows Dean would never hurt him, not intentionally. He is sure of that much. He swallows down his fear.

“I want out.” Sam snaps. “I want to wake up from whatever this is.”

Dean throws back his head and laughs. “You’re insane. This is _reality,_ Sam. It’s always been this way. Maybe mom should take you to the mental institute downtown. Seems like you belong there.”

“No. It _hasn’t_ always been this way, Dean. I’m a mute, and moms dead, and most days dad can’t even _look_ at me, and you! You’d do anything for me! You’re supposed to be the one person I can always trust. The one person who will never make me feel alone. You’re supposed to understand me even though I can’t talk, and strangers are supposed to murmur about how close we are and doctors are supposed to tell you that there is nothing they can do about my muteness but it’s good that I have someone like you around to translate and I’m supposed to draw a little heart on the inside of your wrist because I love you so much and...and…and we’re supposed to be _one_! One unit, Sam-and-Dean, not Sam…and Dean.” Sam growls with frustration. There was difference. A huge one.

Dean glares at him. “Sam, I don’t know what kind of nonsense you’re talking. Mom is downstairs. Dad _adores_ you. You can talk just fine, in case you haven’t noticed, and we aren’t close. Never have been, probably never will be.”

“We are!” Sam says desperately, hugging his arms around his knees. “We _are_ Dean. We’re so close, I can communicate with you without even speaking! We can talk with looks and hands and smiles, and we shut everyone else out except for each other because _we’ve never needed anyone else._ We’re always enough for each other! But here? Here I don’t even know who you are.”

“I’m your brother.” Dean glares.

“No. I don’t know who you are, but you are _not_ my brother.” Sam was more sure now than he was before. His own words had convinced him.

“Of course I am. You’re a Winchester. I’m a Winchester. I’m Dean, you’re Sam. We’re _brothers,_ Sam, okay? You have everything here, so just…just stop poking and prodding for once in your life and _accept_ that you’ve been given a gift you should be grateful for!” Dean growls.

Sam sniffles in shock at Dean’s raised voice. He blinks up at his brother. He knows, he _knows,_ that something is wrong, and he knows that wherever he is, in the real world, _his_ Dean is probably insanely worried about him, and somehow he knows that whatever has happened to him, wherever he is in this strange dreamland, he’s got to wake up. He’s got to make it back.

That’s all. If he wakes up, Dean will be there and they can figure the rest out, whatever might be left to figure out. Together. But Dean is alone right now and Sam doesn’t _want_ Dean to be alone, so he’s got to wake up.

That’s when he hears the bang.

It sounds like something had fallen, a book shelve, maybe, or a mirror? No. There was no shattering glass—just the sharp sound of a large item hitting the floor, and then the amused sound of a females voice, and a male’s voice responding, sounding angry, sounding fierce. The voices were too faint to decipher, really, more of an echo. But it’s terrifying, and confusing as hell. Sam looks up at Dean in a panic, but Dean seems unaffected, like he hadn’t heard the sound at all. Sam has to be sure.

“Did you hear that?” He whispers.

Dean looks at him like he’s grown four eyeballs. On his shoulder. “Uh, hear what?”

“The bang! The voices!” Sam says, sniffling, feeling frustrated. “What the hell _was_ that?”

“I didn’t hear anything.” Dean says carefully. “Sam, are you okay?”

“No. I am _so far_ from okay right now.” Sam answers, his voice weak and shaking. His mind races, trying to come up with a reason, an explanation, as to what that sound was—because he _knew_ he wasn’t imagining it, and he knew that it had to mean something.

But he was stumped, and scared, and he was only 15—caught up in this huge whole mess when he just wanted his brother. His _real_ brother, the one that would soothe him out of nightmares and sing _Hey Jude_ when Sam cried and made him laugh and drove him anywhere he wanted to go with the windows all rolled down. He wanted that Dean. His Dean.

He glances up at his the not-Dean Dean. “I need to wake up.” He tells him softly.

Dean looks horrified that this argument is continuing. “You _are awake.”_

“I’m not.” Sam answers, his tone confident and sure. “But I will be soon.” He nods to himself. “If I could just wake up...I could get to Dean, get answers, get help. I _just need to wake up.”_

He shuts his eyes, squeezes them as tight as he can, crossing his fingers, imagining leaving all this behind to wake up to a frantic Dean, who’ll be so relieved when Sam comes to. He prays that he’ll just be able to _wake up_.

When he opens them again, nothing has changed.

Dean is still looking at him like he’s grown two heads.

And Sam is stuck, he knows it, just like he knows that he’s a 15 year old boy. And he isn’t going to make it out of here anytime soon.

-

Dean rushes over to Sam when his legs finally decide they obey him again, which is about 0.01 seconds after he spots his baby brother, and he starts helplessly pulling at the ropes he remembers hadn’t been restraining Lacy when he’d found her. Half of him hoped it was because Sam fought and the other have doesn’t know what to think of anything.

All of him hoped that Sam was going to be okay, and that he’d forgive Dean for not protecting him when he woke up.

He’s quick to rip off long strips of his own shirt and tie them around the gashes on Sam’s wrist. The buckets that hold his blood are full and Dean’s stomach lurches at the sight.

The Ghul might come to collect, soon.

Sam’s blood. This _thing_ was alive by drinking kids like Sam dry.

He grabs his kids shoulders.

“Sammy.” Dean breathes.

“Sam?” He shakes him, and not gently, either. Sam is a limp weight in his arms, and Dean tries not to think about that.

“You found him?” Megan asked, her voice squeaking up in disbelief, reception crackling on the phone. “I’m back in the building, now.”

“He’s not…he’s not.” Dean starts hyperventilating, his fingers shaking as he searches for a pulse. It’s there, but it’s faint. It’s so faint.

Megan gasps. “Oh god, oh god.” She chokes. “Dean is he--”

“He’s not waking _up.”_ Dean swallows, shaking Sam again. “Come on, Sammy, wake up, wake up…just open your eyes…Sam!” He’s begging now, _pleading,_ that Sam will obey, begging Sam to open his eyes and sit up on his own and just be okay.

_God, Sam. Please just be okay._

Megan lets out a soft sound that is caught somewhere between relief and hesitation. “Dean...”

“Did Kyle? Did he wake up?” Dean asks. “Megan, did he?”

“No,” Megan whispers. “He’s in the backseat. Out cold.”

“No, no…this wasn’t supposed to happen. This isn’t…Sammy…come on man…” He cries freely, the tears feeling like some sort of waterfall down his cheeks, running off his chin and onto Sam, who doesn’t react to them in the slightest.

“Bring him to the impala.” Megan murmurs. “We can deal with it later.”

“We have to deal with it _now!”_ Dean shouts, his voice so loud it echo’s back at him.

That’s when he hears the growl.

It’s a low, guttural sound that sends shivers through his spine and makes him clutch Sam that much closer.

“Dean, did you hear that?” Megan asks frantically. “Where are you?”

“Sammy, _please._ C’mon, kid, don’t do this to me now, not now. You can’t…you have to…” Dean sobs brokenly to Sam. He just wanted Sam to open up his eyes and do something, say something. Anything. Anything except just _lay there_ and look broken.

“Dean, snap out of it.” Megan barks sharply. “Get Sam. Get him to the impala, _now.”_

“Megan, he’s not, he’s--”

“ _Dean.”_ She says again, more insistently this time. “He’s not safe in there. You have to get him _out._ The Ghul is around and it’s realized by now we’ve taken one of its live prey and the other is about to go. You need to _hurry.”_

Dean swallows, but he nods, before remembering Megan can’t see him. “Okay, I’m….I’m bringing him. You know. To the car. But, Megan, he’s not…”

“Awake. I know, Dean.” Her voice is much softer this time, guilt ridden, like so many times before. “It’ll…be okay. We can figure out how to wake him up later.”

Dean wanted to press, and ask _why_ he wasn’t waking up—he knew Megan knew something, he could just tell by the way she spoke about Sam not being awake.

But she was right—there were more important things. Sam would never get the chance to wake up if Dean didn’t get him the hell out of dodge, and fast.

“Okay. Okay.” He tells the phone, his voice sounding pathetic and scared and nothing like his father when _he’s_ put into tough situations. But then again, John always could remove himself from things like this emotionally, in a way Dean didn’t think he’d ever be able to.

He slid his arms under Sam—one behind his knees, and the other on his upper back, and he lifted Sam into his arms like he weighed nothing—Dean was much too high in adrenaline, and Sam didn’t weigh much anyway….the kid never ate enough. He carries him, bridal style, trying not to through up at the sick way Sam’s head lolls around before finally falling limp against Dean’s chest.

“Got you, baby boy.” Dean chokes. “You’re going to be just fine, Sammy. Promise.” He presses a hasty kiss to Sam’s hair, and when he turns away from the bed, he’s eye to eye with the Ghul.

Or at least, that’s what he assumes it to be. Megan never really described its physical form to him, but this was pretty much how a Jinn looked, so he had to assume it was it.

Except, where all the Jinns _Dean_ had ever seen had been blue, the Ghul was bright, fiery red, and there was intricate lacing patterns covering his otherwise human looking skin. Its head was bald, and it’s eyes were a bright, flashing red color. When it pulled its lips back from its teeth, long canine things extended down and glinted in the dim light allowed through the windows.

Dean clutches Sam closer on instinct, knowing he’d need to put him down soon—he couldn’t fight without any hands and he couldn’t risk getting Sam hurt. “Get away from me, you son of a _bitch.”_ Dean warns.

The Ghul snarls, the same god awful sound Dean had heard earlier, and he feels the urge to growl right back, but he refrains, because the Ghul decides to speak, and its voice sounds chills down Dean’s spine. “Give me back my _boy,”_ The Ghul hisses, lunging at Dean.

But Dean saw it, he saw the shift in the weight in the Ghul’s bare feet before it moved and he was faster—he pushed Sam behind him, laying him somewhat roughly on the bed, and then whipping around to dodge the Ghul just in time.

Megan must know what’s going on—she must be able to hear it from the phone tucked in the breast pocket of Dean’s jacket, but she knows better than to speak up, clearly.

“He’s _my_ boy!” Dean barks, before landing a hard punch in the things face. It doesn’t do anything except maybe make it lose its balance a little, but the connection of bone to bone feels good—solid. It helps Dean to take out his anger. “Mine! Not yours!” He repeats, landing another solid hit to the Ghul’s stomach, knocking it flat on its ass, which he took a minute to enjoy—didn’t Megan say these things were fierce, and practically impossible to injure?

And then he’s soaring halfway across the room, to land hard against a wall, hitting the floor with a sickening thud, his phone smashing against his chest. He lay still for a moment, feeling his head throb, contemplating what to do next—clearly, this thing wasn’t as weak as he’d hoped, and was living up to Megan’s warnings.

And now Dean was across the room, which felt like oceans away from Sam—Sam, who was unconscious, _Sam,_ who was defenseless against that thing.

Dean forces himself to his feet, staggering towards the Ghul in a way he knew probably looked pretty damn pathetic.

He didn’t care, though, because the Ghul was _right there,_ and he was leering over Sam like he had a right to be within a hundred miles of Dean’s kid, and the thing _reached its hand out and stroked Sam’s face._ And somehow that was worse than if he’d slapped Sam, because this monster was acting like it was trying to save Sam from _Dean,_ like _Dean_ was the real danger here.

And there was no way in hell that was okay.

“Get. The. Hell.” Dean curls his lip back from his teeth in a feral expression. “Away. From. My. Kid.”

The Ghul turns, clearly amused. “You’re kid?” It mocks back. “Sam was never yours.”

“He _is.”_ Dean says darkly. “He’s mine.” His jaw tightens. _Where_ the hell is Megan, and why is she taking her damn sweet time to get up here?

“No, he’s not. You’re not even that special to him, you know. You’re just…someone who doesn’t look at him like he’s a freak. And you know, one day he’s going to meet someone, someone who can do everything you can, but _better,_ and she’ll be all he’s ever dreamed of. Or—no. He. _He’ll_ be all Sam’s ever dreamed of.” The Ghul sounds so damn _sure of itself_ Dean wants to punch it again, but he knows that would be in vain.

What he’s got to do now is keep it distracted until Megan can get here to kill it, and keep it from hurting Sam.

It didn’t mean that Dean was immune to its words.

“Sam loves me.” Dean yells. “He does!” He feels desperately like a child, yet again, trying to prove to his mother that his toys really do come to life, or something equally as impossible.

“Oh, yes.” The Ghul agrees, its amber gaze dropping down to Sam, who looked almost peaceful, as though he was just sleeping, instead of being stuck in his own head. Then, it turns back to Dean, its expression mocking. “But it’s never _enough,_ is it, Dean?”

“What?” Dean asks weakly, his heart thundering in his chest. _Please don’t say it, please don’t…_

“You want more from him, more than maybe he’s willing to give.” The Ghul pauses almost thoughtfully, as if considering its words. “No,” It shakes it’s head. “I’m wrong. Sam _does_ love you. He loves you a lot. You know, he’s considered suicide before, because of just how much he loves you.”

“You’re lying.”

“No, I’m not.” The Ghul says smugly. “I’ve been inside Sam’s head. I’m in there _right now,_ poking, and prodding.” It hissed out a laugh. “Sam hates himself.”

Dean doesn’t answer that. Sam has never been his own biggest fan—not like Dean has.

“Hates himself a lot,” The Ghul continues, amusement leaking out of its tone. “Sometimes he looks at you and realizes that he’d rather die than have to live so close to you, and yet have you so far away.”

“Shut up.” Dean whispers, his eyes damp, as he tries not to cry, not to let this thing see his tears.

“The day I took him was particularly bad.” The Ghul muses, turning back to Sam with a tiny, nearly _sympathetic_ smile on its ugly face. “He half considered it, you know. What it would be like, if he killed himself. You could almost say…I saved his life.”

“No,” Dean collapses, to his knees now, shaking with the realization. Sam could have been gone, forever, _just like that,_ and his last conversation with him would have been nothing and Sam would die thinking that Dean hated him, when that couldn’t be more wrong.

Dean loved Sam more than Sam has ever loved himself, and Sam loves Dean and hates himself for it, and maybe that’s the whole problem here. Love. Love is tearing them apart while making them unforgivingly drawn to each other at the same time and it hurts like hell more now than ever before, because Sam literally would have taken away his _own life_ because he was so sure Dean hated him.

“ _Yes,”_ the Ghul practically moans. “It’s _true._ ”

“Hey, fuck face!”

The Ghul whips around, startled by an angry red head, his eyes narrowed, the scar on her cheek making her look badass and ready for a fight. “Remember me?”

The Ghul studies her for a moment, while Dean manages to crawl back over to Sam. He feels helpless, useless. There isn’t anything he can do to help Megan with killing the Ghul, and even if there _was_ something, the knowledge that Sam was ready to end his own life knocks the breath out of Dean and makes it impossible for him to do anything but hold Sam’s limp hand tightly, like some sort of lifeline.

“I’ve got you, little brother.” He whispers, leaning his head against Sam’s side. The rise and fall of his kid’s chest was so shallow, so _faint._ It hadn’t even been a _full day_ since this thing had had Sam. God know how much it’d had taken, besides the sickeningly full buckets of blood. Dean wonders how much life force the Ghul drained from Sam. “We’re going to be okay. It’ll all be okay.” Dean makes the promise in confidence, because there is no way he’ll let this _not_ be okay. Sam is _his_ despite what the Ghul said and he _is_ going to make everything okay again. He will. He _will._

“Ah, yes. I _do.”_ The Ghul nods, starting to take a slow step back from Megan. “Sorry our little adventure together didn’t end better.”

“Better, as in, me…dead.” Megan doesn’t say it like a question, because it’s not.

“Something like that. You did serve so well, Megan. Really. A real fighter.” The Ghul gives a grimacing sort of smile. “I assume you’re here to kill me?”

“You betcha, hot stuff.” Megan snarls. “Let’s get down to it, shall we?” She cracks her knuckles, taking a deep breath.

The Ghul lunges for her, lightning fast, and this time, Dean’s eyes, blurred with tears, have trouble tracking the motion.

Megan, apparently, does not have the same trouble. She dodges the Ghul’s striking fist and retaliates by screaming, “Karly didn’t deserve the life she was given—but she was _happy.”_

The Ghul _snarls_ at that, a purely evil sound that has Dean instinctively reaching over to cover Sam’s ears.

This was about to get ugly, fast.

-

He was reading.

Just a textbook he’d gotten today from English. It was mostly stuff he already knew, but some of it was new information that Sam absorbed like a sponge.

He’d managed to find his own room, down an entire hallway from Dean, (that’s the furthest they’ve ever slept before while in the same building) and now he’s curled up on his bed, eyes scanning over the pages.

He’s content to do just that, his eyes too dry from crying, the frustration of his situation making him feel weak and helpless. Everything in the air around him is still.

That is, until he hears, _got you, baby boy. You’re going to be just fine, Sammy Promise._

Sam gasps, his eyes widening as his fingers fall slack, the book slipping through his hands, resulting in a paper cut he doesn’t even flinch at.

“Dean,” He whispers, his eyes falling closed. He knows that voice, he’d know it anywhere. It’s the same sort of echoing tone he’d heard before, and he shivers as the realization hit.

Sam might be comatose, but he can _hear_ whatever is going on out there in the real world.

-

“Your sister deserved so much _better,”_ The Ghul hisses, the tattoos and designs on its skin glowing a bright, menacing red. “She was only a kid when she lost her hearing—a baby, really. She hated it. She just couldn’t understand why she was _so_ different. In school, everyone would try to talk to her, the kids, they didn’t understand that she didn’t answer because she couldn’t _hear_ them…” It grins wildly at Megan, who clenches her fists, shaking her head.

“You’re _wrong.”_ Megan replies. Dean is proud of the way her voice doesn’t quake. “Karly never complained once. She was just a kid, maybe, but she had her family to support her and it’s okay, it’s _okay,_ because now she’s a bright, _beautiful_ girl and she’s got so much going for her.” Megan sticks up her chin, and the Ghul lets out a vicious roar, as it drops to its knees.

Dean hugs Sam closer, holding his hand. He wants Sam to know it’ll be okay even if it won’t be.

“You’re—wrong.” The Ghul gasps, clearly getting weaker. “She hates herself, to this _day,_ she looks in the mirror and she--”

“She smiles at her reflection. She smiles because she’s lovely, God—she’s so beautiful, and sweet and god dammed _caring_ and I don’t give a _shit_ about whatever you have to say to me because none of it, _none_ of it is true—Karly is so lucky to have what she has, to have  family who loves her, and a best friend who would die for her, and to be surrounded by so much love.”

The Ghul howls, a truly animalistic sound—and Dean suddenly has to get on this before the Ghul is killed. This thing fucked with Sam. This _monster_ had the nerve to take his baby brother and _feed from him._ It had said Sam didn’t belong to Dean.

He pounces on it, pinning it to the floor, a tight hand wrapped around its neck. “You son of a bitch.” Dean seethed. “You should feel _grateful_ a weapon wouldn’t do anything to you—otherwise I’d drag this out, long and slow, and very, very painful.” He hisses, baring his teeth.

The Ghul growls at that, a low, rumbling sound in its chest. “You’ll regret this,” it promises. “You don’t know how to wake Sam up. Or the other boy—Kyle. _You’ll never be able to wake them up, and they’ll be stuck in their own heads forever.”_

Dean presses his thumb into the things windpipe just because he can, watching the satisfactory way it’s red eyes bulge out of its head. He knows that choking it won’t actually kill the Ghul, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t pleasing as hell to watch it struggle to breathe like air actually means something.

“Megan,” Dean hisses. “Finish it.”

Megan comes to stand behind him. Dean can’t see her—he doesn’t take his eyes off the struggling monster before him—but he can feel the wrath of her presence hovering just inches behind him. Ready to defend him if the Ghul suddenly lashes out—which didn’t seem to likely. He could tell it was weak and getting weaker. They were going to win this. This _thing_ would never ruin lives, it would never kill again. It would pay for what it did to Sam.

“Karly is _lucky._ She is _blessed_ \-- _”_ Dean feels the Ghul shudder violently beneath him at Megan’s words.

“Sam won’t ever wake up.” The Ghul whispers, fiery eyes rolling in the back of its head as it convulsed. “Sammy’s going to spend the rest of his life in a hospital bed, and it’s all…your…”

“ _Megan.”_ Dean snaps, interrupting the Ghul before it could finish. “Now.”

“—And she is _happy_ with her life!” Megan finishes, her voice a loud cry of victory, and Dean watches as the Ghul lets out a wail, before catching on fire.

Fire that didn’t burn Dean, even though he was situated on top of the damn thing.

He jumps back anyway, instinct making him put a safe distance between him and the fire. The Ghul is in the flames, still struggling. A horrible smell—like burning meat, that reminds Dean too much of the night his mother died—fills the air.

“It’s done,” He whispers, as the Ghul’s shrieks are swallowed up. He wraps an arm around Megan’s shoulders, using her to ground himself. He tried not to think about the smell. He tried not to think about what the Ghul had said. He tries not to think about anything in particular.

As if someone had snapped their fingers, the flaming beast turns to a pile of dust that then vanishes into the floor, and Dean inhales a shaky breath—the smell, by some miracle, has completely vanished, and now there’s only Sam, lying deadly still, in the same position Dean had left him in.

He leaves Megan and turns to Sam, stroking his kids hair with soft, tender motions. “See?” He whispers. “We’re fine.”

He picks Sam up like he’s made of fine china, and he ignores the way Sam is a limp body in his arms, turning to Megan, who was crying. Remembering, probably, what she went through. Thinking, most likely, about Karly, her sister, and about what the Ghul had said.

Dean opens his mouth to somehow console her, but he knows there is nothing he can say that will really help, and he’s not even sure what he _would_ say if words could magically have some healing affect, so he presses his lips into a line.

Dean has never been the best at words. Maybe that’s why he and Sam get along so well. They don’t need words to communicate.

“Come on,” Megan sniffs finally. “Let’s get out of here.”

Dean’s thumb strokes over Sam’s bicep. “Yeah.”

Sam looks so peaceful—at rest. His skin is pale, a little yellowed around his eyes, and his skin is cool to the touch, but he’s breathing, even if the rise and fall of his chest is shallow. Dean realizes with a jolt that he’s wearing Dean’s t shirt, the fabric soft and worn from all the times Dean spent lazing around in it. He fingers the material between his thumb and forefinger.

“Dean.”

Dean lifts his head slowly, to see that Megan has clearly retreated, thinking he’d been following.

“Right,” he whispers, his mouth cotton dry.

“Are you coming?” She asks, her voice a little raspy from previously cried tears.

“Um, yeah.” He calls, hugging Sam just a little tighter. “We’re coming.”

*~*~*

Sam is tucked in tight into the motel room—not the one with the blood, the one he and Dean had been at before this had all happened. Dean had already collected all of Sam’s things from that room, and brought them here.

Megan had offered to do that, so Dean didn’t have to see all the blood, the evidence of what he already knew had happened, but he felt protective over Sam’s things. They felt like the only real evidence that Sam was not always comatose, and maybe the only reason he had to hope that he would ever wake up. It sounded stupid, but when one is grieving, logic is but a thing to be desired.

The lamp on the bedside was on, and it made Sam’s long lashes cast crescent shaped shadows down his cheeks. Dean couldn’t help but think he was beautiful.

Niether of them have said much of anything, and it’s a silence that hurts Dean’s ears, different from the silence that accompanies Sam. This silence is dark and heavy and it feels like suffocation and desperation. Sam’s silence feels like sunshine, feels like home.

Kyle was on the bed beside Sam, tucked in as well. Megan mostly had done that. Dean was too focused on Sam to notice really anything about Kyle.

“Megan,” Dean says finally. He can’t take the silence, he can’t just sit there and watch Sam’s sleeping (dead looking) little brother. He had to do something to help—he just had no idea on where to start.

She glances up from her laptop when Dean calls her name. He isn’t sure what it is she’s doing on there and he doesn’t really care enough to ask.                                                                                                             

“Why aren’t they waking up?” He asked finally. “Why isn’t Sammy awake yet?”

There it was yet again—that guilty look. Dean had noticed it whenever he mentioned anything about Sam waking up. He narrows his eyes at it, instantly suspicious when she hesitates before answering.

“Dean, I--”

“You’re not telling me something.” Dean snaps.

She swallows, looking down at her keyboard. He takes her silence as agreement.

“What is it?” He demands, his fists clenching the bed sheets at Sam’s side. He turns away from her, unable to see the pity in her eyes. “ _Megan.”_ He says, more insistent. “Tell me.”

“I….Sam. Sam might be like this…for a while.” Her voice is so quiet Dean hardly catches her words at all.

“What do you _mean?”_ He whispers, his bravado gone, replaced by a lost broken boy who just wanted his little brother to smile at him and roll his eyes and hug him tight and for him to stop _lying_ there.

“I mean….when I was taken, I didn’t wake up for three weeks.” Her voice is almost a sigh of sadness, of remembrance. “There’s been cases where people didn’t wake up for longer. And that’s if…” She lets out a soft noise, like a sob, but not quite.

Dean’s shaking. He’s scared, and he’s mad, and it’s _not_ a good combination. He holds Sam’s hand. His shaking fingers trace little hearts on the inside of Sam’s wrist— _I love you, Sammy._

“If?” He shuts his eyes, bracing for what he fears is to come.

Megan closes her laptop, and then cradles her head in her hands, as if it’s _her_ little brother that might not be okay, like it’s _her_ entire world, _her_ Sam to be upset over.

She rakes a hand through her hair. “If they wake up at all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may or may not have noticed by chapter titles are either titles of songs or lyrics from songs so if you have a song in mind that maybe reminds you of wincest or this verse leave a comment and I'll use it for a chapter name C:


	7. Be the voice that shakes me up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam is not a car broken down on the side of the road, he gets that, but Sam is also not irreparable. Dean can take his broken boy and he can love the hell out of him until he starts to love himself, he can tell Sam how wonderful he is until Sam believes him.
> 
> And that’s all he can do, but he has to believe it’s enough.
> 
> It has to be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for some pretty depressing stuff! Suicidal thoughts, brief mentions of self harm, and some in depth about depression.   
> Read with caution, loves!  
> Remember; this verse will get worse before it gets better !!

__**"I, bought you the sky**  
And the oceans too  
By, the look in your eye  
The only thing I couldn’t do  
Was fail for you  
Don’t ask me to fail for you" 

_**-Fail for you, Luke Sital-Singh** _

_**-** _

_**  
** _ **Dear J,**

**Today in class, we were learning about stars—and about how they die, how they’re born. We learned about brown dwarfs and red giants and galaxies and everything about stars and constellations and it was all so fascinating, I even entertained the idea of being an astronaut. I know—that dream belongs to 6 year olds and people with lives much different than the Winchester’s, but I couldn’t help but wonder, what it would be like to be able to be _that close_ to something so magnificent. **

**Then again, I guess that’s my everyday reality. My brother is Dean Winchester, after all.**

**My teacher, Mr. Mcdavidson, loves space just like me, and he explained how star dust reaches the atmosphere and settle into everything, and he concluded that we’re all made of stardust. Sounds kind of poetic, when you say it. Stardust sounds like something from a romance novel, something from a love song. It made me think, when he said that, about Dean. It’s stupid, I know. I’m worse than the head cheerleader crushing on the captain of the football team, but I couldn’t help it. If there is anyone made of stardust, it’s my brother. Maybe not the _literally_ dust from the sky but the stuff that counts—the magical kind of stardust that people write songs and poems and god damn _novels_ about. The stuff that someone has that makes them lovely. Dean is lovely. The way he smiles and laughs and holds me like he’ll never ever let me go. He’s so lovely—everything about him is so effortless it hurts sometimes to look at him, like staring into the sun—the brightest star we have. He’s _lovely,_ and the saddest part is, I don’t think he’ll ever even know it, no matter how many times I try to tell him.**

Dean looks at his baby brother, looks at his Sammy, his kid, his boy, his whole goddamn world. He looks back down at the journal, and back at Sam.

It seemed surreal. How could Sam _ever_ think so highly of him, when all Dean did was constantly let him down?

“I keep failing you,” Dean whispers, his head dropping between his shoulder blades in defeat. “I keep letting you down and you still view me as some sort of hero.” His voice breaks. “I’m not the lovely one.”

**Dear J,**

**I think my own father hates me.**

**Okay, maybe that’s an exaggeration.**

**I know he doesn’t _hate_ me, otherwise I wouldn’t be living with him right now, I’m sure of that. But I know he doesn’t love me. Not the way the fathers on the TV love their sons. **

**Dad doesn’t ruffle my hair on his way out, he doesn’t hold me when I’m sad. He doesn’t crack jokes to make me smile, he doesn’t look at me like I’m something precious. (Dean does though. He always does.)**

**He doesn’t care what I do and he’d rather clean his gun than ask me how my day was or how I am in general. It’s not like he’s the perfect father to Dean, either. But dad cares about Dean in a way I’ll never have his affection. I think that because I’m a mute, dad thinks I’m stupid. He talks about me like I’m not there, like I’m too dumb to process what he’s saying.**

**Well, if he just paid attention to my damn report cards, to my grades, he’d see! I’m the top of all my AP classes. I’m not stupid. I’m not. Dean doesn’t think I am. Dean is proud when I bring home an A+ test. Dean brings me out for dinner and ice cream and hugs me and tells me that I’m a genius. Dean loves me so much it makes me wonder what I did to deserve someone like him. **

Dean has to wipe his tears pathetically from his face because they’re dripping onto the pages and smudged the ink from the pen there.

**Dear J,**

**Sometimes I think that we could just run away. Just…just get out. Escape everything and everyone. Dean and I used to plan it, y’know? Late nights when dad was out hunting—Dean couldn’t have been older than 11 or 12, and I was around 7--we’d climb under the covers, and he’d be able to tell in a heartbeat if I was upset, and why I was upset.**

**He’d hold me close and tell me _one day Sammy, we’ll get out of here. I promise._ And I could tell by his words that he’d meant it, at the time. He really did want to get me the hell out of dodge and away from dad’s insults and constant pushing for me to get more independent. _Just four more years ‘till I can drive and then we’re out of here._ But plans changed, and things changed, and I was in school and trying to grow up without being able to talk and I stopped dreaming about ripping Dean away from our father forever. Dean may not like how he treats me but I know he loves dad. I love him too, despite everything. He’s still my father. **

**So we’ll stay, and I’ll just deal with it. That seems to be the story of my life now.**

**Walk it off, Sam. Walk it off.**

Dean breathes in a harsh gasp of breath, slamming the journal shut and practically throwing himself on top of Sam. He felt empty. His Sam felt alienated by their father, and the worst part is that this isn’t even news to Dean. For a long time, he’s known how John had always made Sam feel. How he still makes Sam feel.

He remembers all too clearly the whispered get away plans—he was hell bent on making Sam safe and happy and loving him so much he’d never need anyone else. He was possessive over Sam, even then. He wanted Sam to have friends of course, but he also wanted Sam to himself, he wanted to see a side of Sam no one else was privileged enough to be allowed to know. He wanted that gift, and he didn’t want to share Sam with the world. The world was a cruel place, too harsh to really appreciate his kid for all that he is.

Dean still feels like that, that possessive anger.

He rests his head on Sam’s stomach. “I’m sorry you weren’t loved the way you deserved.” Dean whispers, because he can, because maybe Sam can hear him, and maybe he can’t, but it feels good to voice his apology out loud. “And I’m sorry I never got you out sooner. But we’re out now, and we don’t ever have to go back. It can be just the two of us and we can do whatever you want and I’ll keep you so safe nothing like this will ever happen to you again,” Dean chokes, holding onto fistfuls of Sam’s (his?) t shirt. “But first, you need to wake up.”

Sam didn’t react.

Dean didn’t really expect him too, but it still stung when he didn’t open his eyes.

**Dear J,**

**Today, I saw a couple holding hands and laughing at the beach we drove past, and it hit me hard.**

**Dad didn’t see, too focused on the road to care, and Dean was asleep, his head resting in my lap. But I saw. I saw it all and it made my chest ache.**

**It made me think, and in result, it made me sad. Because the one that I want so much, the one I would die for, would live for, is right here in front of me but we can never be that couple. Dean will never love me the way I will always love him. He won’t hold my hand or kiss my nose or my lips just because he can. He’ll never say _I love you_ and weight it with the world. He’ll never be able to even look at me if the truth were to ever come out.**

**Sometimes I get so close to telling him, just blurting it out, _God, I’m so in love with you,_ but I can’t, and I chicken out every time because I can’t lose him. I can walk through the hallways and get stared at like a two headed abomination. I can get shoved into lockers. I can take the power of my dad’s glare and I can take the knowledge that he gets drunk to forget the pain of having a son who is such a burden on him. I can deal with all of that—I do it on a daily basis. But I can’t, I _can’t_ look at Dean and know that he hates me, that I disgust him. That is a blow I know I would not survive.**

Dean shudders.

Sam was afraid of losing him because he thought that Dean would think he’s disgusting. Would hate him.

It seemed like such an irrational fear—Dean knew right down to his very core that he could never, _ever_ hate Sam.

He couldn’t hate his kid if it turned out it was him that turned into a demon and killed their mother that night of the fire. He wouldn’t be able to hate Sam if Sam tried to kill him. If Sam _did_ kill him.

He couldn’t imagine being the reason for hurt in those Bambi innocent eyes Sam has. The perfected puppy gaze that sends Dean to his knees in seconds about any decision, and he’s fairly sure Sam knows it, too.

“I’m not going anywhere.” He promises, smoothing back Sam’s hair. “Not ever.”

-

“Mom, I don’t feel well.” Sam mumbles, keeping his eyes on the tile of the kitchen floor, unable to look his mother in the eyes. “My stomach hurts, I feel sick.” He hates how dead his voice sounds and he’s almost sure that his mom will call his fake, but instead, she’s only worried.

“Oh, no! There _has_ been a bug going around. I was just hoping you boys wouldn’t catch it.” She says sympathetically. Suddenly, there’s a hand on his hair, his mother tilting his face up to look in his eyes.

It hurts to look at her. He knows he shouldn’t be lying, but he also somehow knows this isn’t real, it can’t be _real,_ and this isn’t _really_ his mother.

Still, with her green eyes watching him, and her delicate eyebrows drawn up in worry, it _felt_ like his mother, and it hurt like hell to lie to her.

“You should probably stay home from school for a day or two until you feel better,” She murmurs to herself. “I can call your father to come back and stay with you, if you’d like?”

“No, no,” Sam shakes his head quickly. “I’ll be okay, mom. Promise. I’m just going to sleep it off, probably.”

Mary looks apprehensive, but she nods finally. “Well, alright. I’ll be home around 3, like always...” She trails off, sighing. “Make sure you drink lots of water, and sleep on your side, not your back! I’ll call you and check up on you, okay?”

“Okay, Mom.” Sam whispers, hugging her around her slim waist because he couldn’t help himself, he had to apologize somehow for being such an awful son. “I love you.”

“I love you too, Sammy,” She kisses the top of his head before pulling away, ruffling his hair. “Go sleep it off,” she encourages. “On your side, don’t forget!”

Sam nods, eyeing the floor as if it was somehow winning his interest, and sulked off, bumping into a hard chest on his way.

“Sam?” Dean demands, his voice low and gruff from sleep. “What’s wrong?”

Sam doesn’t like the way Dean sounds—its fake concern, this Dean doesn’t _really_ care. He knows that now.

“I’m fine.” Sam says, for his mother’s sake. “Just not feeling great. I’m staying home from school today.”

He didn’t look up to see Dean’s face, but his brother stepped aside to let him pass, gesturing for him to head on upstairs. “Okay,” His not-brother muttered. “Go back to sleep.”

Sam did, knowing that sleeping is the last thing he’d be doing today.

-

Dean isn’t sure how long he’d sat there. Just…sat there. With Sam.

Megan had left with Kyle to take him back to the motel room, under the police radar. They had to figure this thing out without the authorities. As for the bodies of the other teenagers, Megan carefully moved them somewhere less dangerous than the warehouse, and called the police, leaving an anonyms tip. She wasn’t worried about being a suspect at all—apparently, her husband called and gave her a few tips.

Dean did feel sorry for the other teenagers, the ones who’d lost their lives for no reason at all, but he also couldn’t dwell much on it. He had Sam and that was enough to occupy his mind for a long time. Forever, maybe.

Sam didn’t do much of anything. He just laid there, lips slightly parted. Dean had stitched up Sam’s wrists and Megan had done the same for Kyle, and now there was nothing to do but wait. Sam didn’t so much as twitch, the only motion he makes being the steady rise and fall of his chest. He didn’t do much, true, but he was breathing, and Dean would take that.

He’d take it and be damn grateful.

He watches Sam’s face—he either looked very deeply asleep, or the kind of peaceful that made him seem dead. He presses the softest of kisses to Sam’s temple. “You’re probably going to be so pissed when you find out I’ve been reading your journal,” He admits softly, with a gentle smile. “But I’m finding sides of you I didn’t even know…existed, and you’ve got to understand how much of an addiction that is.” Learning Sam all over again was better than any drug Dean had ever tried.

**Dear J,**

**Today, Sandy Trimmer flirted with me.**

**Yeah, that’s right. Me. Me, the mute. Sam Winchester. The loser. And it wasn’t even to try to get to my brother, Dean. She seemed…nice. Genuinely nice. Pretty and smart and kind and maybe if I wasn’t so in love with my own goddamn brother we could even try out being together. But she didn’t understand me the way Dean does. When I tilted my head at her, she frowned at me. Dean would have known that I was asking _why?_ When I smiled at her, she smiled back. Dean would have known that that smile meant I was just trying to be polite, and didn’t really want her around. Not that Sandy is a bad person—far from it, it seems. But I would only hurt her, because my infatuation with Dean leaves me completely ruined for anyone else who even looks my way twice. They can never be him. They can never be what he is for me.**

**Today, Kimmy McNeil pulled Dean into the girl’s bathroom and kissed him hard. I know because he came out of there a minute or two after she did with swollen lips and a dazed expression. Who knows, maybe they did more. Maybe she sucked his dick.**

**Maybe I want to be the one doing that. Maybe I want to be the one making Dean’s pupils dilate and making his lips swollen and wet and maybe I want him to want me in a way that isn’t healthy, not at all. I want to be Dean’s drug, I want to be the one who can turn him on at the most inappropriate times. I want to be the one he climbs into bed with, the one he holds, the only one he lets his walls down around. I want it to be _me._**

Dean’s shaking so hard he can barely turn the page. Sam, Sam….wanted him. Wanted him in a way that was more than just his hugs or his cuddles, his affection. Sam talked about sucking his dick, and dammit if he wasn’t already hard at the very thought of all the things Sam’s little virgin self, thinking up all these things and confessing them to this paper.

“God, I want you.” Dean chokes, his voice almost a sob. “You have no idea how much. You don’t know the things you do to me, Sam. Fuck, you don’t know.”

He has to read on.

**Dear J,**

**So sometimes I get this thing. This thing deep inside my chest that grows and consumes me whenever it fucking feels like it. I’ve never told anyone about it—not even Dean—so I don’t know for sure what it is, but it feels a lot like how depression is said to feel. Like a weight, pressing me down and making each step harder, making each morning out of bed feel like a task too impossible to even begin to imagine accomplishing. And you hate yourself for it. You hate that you’re weak and you don’t _want_ to feel the sadness, but you can’t fix yourself. **

**Only sometimes it’s not like that at all.**

**Sometimes I crave it, that feeling, that ache deep inside. It makes me feel whole, makes me feel alive and human. There are so few times these days that I truly feel like I exist. The sadness can be addicting. I deserve it, you know. I deserve it for being so sick and loving my brother in the way a little brother never should feel about his own sibling. I deserve this weight because I’m not pure and I’m not sure how I can even be alive when I’m something so unclean. This attraction makes me unclean. I don’t know why I’m here, I’m not sure why I was brought here if my life was just meant to be a whole lot of suffering and confusion and hurting other people. I think I hurt my dad all the time. I think that if he ever has liver failure or cancer or any other disease from drinking it will be all my fault because he drinks because of me. He drinks to forget me. And I know I hurt Dean whenever _I_ hurt, and it seems like these days all I am is a constant ache with legs and no voice to tell any of my secrets.**

“No,” Dean tells him feverishly, knowing all the same Sam can’t hear him. “God, Sam, why didn’t you tell me?”

Sam, of course, doesn’t say a word.

Dean didn’t expect him to.

He never has.

**Dear J,**

**I think I’m broken.**

And that’s it, that entire day’s entry, just those four little words. _I think I’m broken._

Dean flips to the next page because if he dwells on that for too long he’ll be the broken one.

**Dear J,**

**I wish I was fixable. I wish that I didn’t hate myself, I wish that I didn’t love Dean. I wish Dad would stop trying to pretend like I don’t exist while still pretending to care about my safety. I wish I could speak. I wish. I wish. I wish.**

Dean’s hands are shaking so much it takes him three tries to turn the page.

**Dear J,**

**Amy Burn in my math class cuts herself. It made me wonder if that would take the pain away but I don’t try because I’m too much of a coward. I wish I wasn’t. I want relief from the numbness and I crave the pain that comes when I am rejected. Only now, the pain of rejection doesn’t work anymore—I’ve grown too used to it. I have tolerance. I need a stronger drug.**

**I want to stop loving my brother but I can’t. I look at him, and I just _know_ that I’d do anything, anything he asked and it’s actually a little terrifying to realize how at mercy you are to another’s commands. If Dean told me to run into moving traffic I don’t think I’d think twice and while I know he’d never actually do that or anything like it the idea that I’m so willing to oblige him is scary. **

Sam wanted to hurt himself.

Maybe he still did.

Dean lets a tear fall.

And he turns the page.

**Dear J,**

**If I could only open my mouth and say three words, they’d be: _I’m so sorry._ And I’d say them to three people all at once—Dean, Dad, and Mom. Because through everything, those are the ones I’ve hurt the most. I killed my mother. I’m killing my father. And I’m fairly sure my brother will die trying to save me.**

**So, to you three, with my nonexistent voice I say, _I’m so sorry._**

**And I am.**

Dean can’t look anymore because reading about Sam’s guilt and Sam’s pain feels like a white hot branding iron is being shoved into his navel and is carving him like an animal.

“It’s okay, Sammy.” Dean murmurs, his voice breaking. “I can fix you.”

Sam is not a car broken down on the side of the road, he gets that, but Sam is also not irreparable. Dean can take his broken boy and he can love the hell out of him until he starts to love himself, he can tell Sam how wonderful he is until Sam believes him.

And that’s all he can do, but he has to believe it’s enough.

It has to be enough.

-

Sam lays in bed until he hears Dean leave, later followed by his mother. John has already left.

He was 10 minutes or so before he decides the coast is clear, and he inches out of bed slowly, taking in a deep, shuddering breath, as he begins his search.

He explores his own room.

It’s nothing spectacular, of course. Just four walls and a window, with a bed and a book shelve and a desk with a laptop. He was looking for one thing, and one thing only—his journal.

It seemed stupid, maybe, but if he had that, if he had a record of his thoughts, it would help him to better understand this impossible place he dwells in.

In the waking world, or whatever place he’s normally from, his journal is his most sacred possession. He confesses everything in there. He pours himself onto those pages.

And maybe, just maybe, this Sam, the Sam that belongs to this world, has the same thing, a place, a book, a journal, where he bares himself, where he comes clean.

Sam always thought writing was a way to escape the dark non realities of his own mind, and since that seemed to be exactly what this was—Sam, trapped within the inner workings of his own mind, a journal might act as some sort of guide.

He looks everywhere—he tears his room apart.

But there’s nothing. No journal or booklet or scrap piece of paper…nothing. Sam’s room was cold and impersonal and it was nothing like what he’d always wanted his room to look like if he had ever been allowed a roof and four walls. None of it gave anything away about this strange new _Sam_ other than he didn’t like to over decorate.

Defeated, Sam decides to venture outside. The air inside was stuffy and thick and he suddenly felt extremely claustrophobic. He was clad in nothing but pj pants and an undershirt and it was chilly in the morning air—and strangely, there was little to no traffic, but it felt good on his skin and it was refreshing. He breathed a sigh of relief.

By now, everyone had headed off to work or school and things have settled. The odd straggler walks by and doesn’t give a Sam a second glance. Or a first one, to be honest. It’s a little disconcerting, but Sam has decided that everything about this weird place is like that.

He leans against the doorframe and heaves a long sigh. He just wanted his brother, and the shitty motel rooms, and the impala, and the highway.

He knew, he _knew,_ that Dean—his Dean, his _De—_ was out there in the real world, probably losing his mind trying to get Sam to wake up, trying to figure out what was wrong.

When Sam was 12 years old, he went for a bike ride after school to get out of the motel room after he’d witnessed one of the nastier fights between John and Dean, about him, (Their fights are always about him) and had lost control when he went down a steep hill. He lost his balance and fell into a ditch and broke his leg in three places. He was there alone for a full 30 minutes before Dean found him.

He’ll never, ever forget how haunted Dean’s face was as he scooped Sam up from the cold ground that evening, watching the way Sam’s leg was bent and twisted in unnatural ways. The pain, how bad it hurt, was lost a little on Sam, because Dean looked like he’d been shot in the head just seeing Sam like that. And Sam was there to assure him he was okay.

Now? Sam couldn’t do that.

Dean was losing his mind, he could feel it in his bones, the same way he’d be able to feel it if someone was watching him. It was a 6th sense of sorts, Sam just _knew._ And he couldn’t reassure Dean, he couldn’t promise that he’d find a way to wake up.

Dean was probably wondering if this was all he’d get—if maybe Sam wouldn’t ever wake up or come back from this state he’s in. He’s probably blaming himself, because that’s what Dean _does._

And that’s when Sam remembers.

Okay, well, truthfully, he never really _forgot,_ but amidst all the chaos, it’d been pushed to the back of his mind to deal with later.

He’d gotten a painfully obvious hard-on because of Dean. And Dean knew.

And he got freaked out.

And left.

And maybe he _does_ want Sam to wake up, but not for the right reasons. Maybe he just wants Sam to wake up so Dean can get away from him again.

Because Dean might hate his guts—he probably does, Sam wouldn’t blame him, _God,_ he wouldn’t blame him—but he would never leave Sam alone and vulnerable if he wasn’t in his right mind.

As soon as Sam wakes up, Dean is going to leave faster than Sam can get adjusted to his surroundings. And Sam can’t be angry about that, but it still hurts like hell. And he hates himself for loving Dean and he hates himself for being so obvious about it.

When Sam wakes up, he’s going to be alone. Painfully, and irreversibly, alone.

Here, at least, he still _has_ a Dean. Even if that Dean is messed up and mean and doesn’t really understand Sam, they can always fix that, right? It’s easier to get closer to somebody who always kept you at distance than it is to get your brother to forgive you for being in love with him.

He was awful. He was awful and selfish because he was going to stay in this dreamland, for as long as he could, and he was going to keep the real Dean by his sleeping side because he was too damn scared to wake up and watch his brother leave him all alone.

Sam can take a lot of things.

But he knows that Dean is the one person he who’s rejection he won’t live through.

Sam steps back inside the house, and shuts the door behind him.

He would stay.

-

_There’s nothing for miles and miles. Just…darkness._

_It swallowed up any light it found, devoured it. This is infinite darkness._

_He’s all alone. Why is he alone?_

_He shouldn’t be alone._

_“Sam,”_

_He doesn’t turn around._

_“Sammy, hey! It’s me.”_

_He turns, then. His eyes are closed._

_“Wake up.”_

_He doesn’t open his eyes._

_“Sammy,_ please,”

_Nothing._

_He’ll be like this forever._

“Dean.”

_“Wake up, Sammy.”_

_He tilts his head, but his eyes stay closed._

_“I need you.”_

“Dean, c’mon. Wake up.”

_“Sam! Sam! Please, God, I’ll do anything!” Knees, landing hard, collapsing…_

“Dean! Hey!”

With a jolt, Dean wakes, startled and disoriented, expecting the darkness, expected Sam with his closed eyes, seeing instead bright light through the windows, and his kid asleep on the bed beside him. Dean’s curled on Sam’s side like he never plans to let Sam go.

He doesn’t.

“Dean, it’s me.” Megan’s voice seems to be muffled, but it clears as he blinks rapidly and sits up, slowly, to avoid a head rush that still comes.

“Hi.” He grumps. His voice sounds defeated.

He feels that way. “How long was I out?”

“10 much needed hours.”

“You let me sleep _10 hours?”_ Dean demands, his jaw falling slack. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“You’re no good to Sam if you’re a zombie from not getting enough sleep.” She snapped back, clearly not interested in taking any of his bullshit.

“I’m not good to him anyway.” Dean sighs, running a hand through his hair. Sam’s journal is on the night stand. He’s glad it’s closed.

It’s really not his at all, it’s Sam’s— _and Sam was going to freak out when he realized Dean’s been reading it—_ but to let someone else into Sam’s head the way those pages allow, would feel like stripping Sam of all his self defense knowledge and weapons and setting lose a group of supernatural things on him. It would feel like exposing him, like leaving him vulnerable.

“You’re doing the best you can in a tough situation,” Megan’s voice is gentler now. “You haven’t left his side.”

“What good is that doing?” He mutters rhetorically, watching the window with feigned interest. It was easier than looking at Sam.

“People say that you can hear things when you’re in a coma.” She tells him. “I know you’ve been talking to him.”

“I just want him to wake up.” Dean chokes, clenching his jaw hard to keep from saying more, to keep from sounding even _more_ like a pathetic child.

“I know. I do too.” Megan promises. “And…he will.”

“That isn’t what you said before.”

“Well, Sam’s a fighter, right?”

Dean narrows his eyes at that. Megan didn’t know him to say that, but yeah. Yeah, he was. He’s a Winchester, after all.

He nods once.

“Then he’ll pull through this.”

“I’m not so sure.” Dean says dryly. “What’s he got to come back to? He’s convinced our father wants him dead, he thinks _I_ hate him…and he has no one at school, no friends. He’s got nothing to come back to, in his mind.”

“Why does he think you hate him?” Megan asks, her voice having a strange tone to it Dean doesn’t want to analyze.

“Just…never mind. What’s up? You came here for a reason, right?” The words are clipped and a little rude, but Dean is too drained (despite having slept 10 hours) to take the time with pleasantries. Megan’s words still haunted him.

_If they wake up at all._

Sam might be like this, forever.

“So, Kyle twitched today.” Megan says.

Dean finally turns his head toward her, interested in this.

Her red hair is pulled into some sort of messy knot on top of her head, and her green eyes look tired and sleep deprived. She’s wearing black leggings and combat boots and a big, thick knit sweater and a scarf, and despite the scar on her cheek that makes her look fierce, Megan seems…young. And sad.

“Yeah?” Dean forces himself to offer a small smile. Kyle was showing signs of recovery. Twitching was good. Right?

Megan nods, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. “Last night. And he even turned his head this morning. I think he might wake up, like, really soon.”

“I hope he does.” Dean surprises himself by saying. He sits in silence for a minute or two, contemplating what he’d just said. Of course he wants Kyle to wake up—the boy, just like his kid, was an innocent in all of this.

Never mind the fact that he might be able to offer insight about how to wake Sam up, if he woke up himself.

Megan looks down at her lap. “I do too.” She stands up, suddenly, and walks over to Dean, and wraps her slender arms around his neck, and hugs him tight.

Dean doesn’t hug back, but he doesn’t push her away either.

She kisses his hair. “And, for what it’s worth, and I’m almost positive Sam can do this. If he’s anything like you, he’s a strong boy.”

Dean follows her gaze to said boy, and he finds his  hand brushing Sam’s hair out of his closed eyes. “He’s so strong.” He murmurs, mostly to himself, maybe a little to Sam. “You have no idea—he’s so much stronger than you and I, combined, even. All the shit he goes through every day. Every challenge he faces. And he just… _does_ it. He just deals with things.” Dean’s bottom lip betrays him by starting to tremble, and he bites down on it, hard. “I want him to wake up.” He echoes his own earlier words.

“I know.” Megan whispers. She moves towards him, but doesn’t make the mistake of touching Dean, not again. Her physical comfort is not what he needs now. She watches Sam, and she feels some of Dean’s desperation for him to wake up. “I know.”

-

20 minutes away, in a shitty two bedroom motel room with salt lining the windows and doors and an empty coffee mug on the rooms poor excuse for a dining room table, 16 year old Kyle Tedisco opens his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Another chapter down pat.  
> Just wanted to stop by and say a big fat thank you for leaving those awesome comments and the kudos! I reply when I can, and it makes my day when I see what ya'll think of this verse! I hope you don't hate me too much since this chapter was a little uneventful but at least we got to see into Sam's head a little more, right? It's a pretty complicated place.
> 
> Also, Megan!! I must say, I'm a little in love with that OC, but she doesn't get the spotlight because duh, this story is about Sam and Dean. Not to say we won't get to meet her awesome hunter husband and learn more about that kick ass gal.
> 
> And Kyle! There's a lot in store for him as well, and I think you're going to like what it does to Sam/Dean relationship. I'll just leave that there.
> 
> So, right! This is where I say goodbye and I promise the next upload will be much better (:   
> Remember, I love your comments, and if you have any songs that remind you of wincest, tell me! I'd love, love, love to hear them.   
> Anyhoo, that's my cue, so!  
> Bye (: Love you!


	8. I Ain't Got Nothing Left to Give, Nothing Left to Lose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Dean, for the love of-just look up.”
> 
> And for some reason, he does.
> 
> And when he sees none other than the familiar red headed beauty, and beside her, a very alive, very awake Kyle Tedisco, Dean wants to punch something. Preferably Kyle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo  
> You might actually hate me for this chapter since it's /kinda/ a filler, and I know I promised it would be better than the last but I had to include this and I had to end it where I did because I am known for nothing if not my frustrating cliff hangers.  
> Sorry! In the end I shall make it up to you with disgusting amounts of fluff, promise.   
> Also!

**"Hold out your arms, soak it in, just some teenage kids**

**Before you and I knew that life could never end."**

**- _To the Hills, Laurel_**

______

Megan was _tired._

She’d slept fine enough, that wasn’t the problem—the four hours she got last night was enough to last her a while.

But being around Dean was _exhausting._

He was only 19 years old, he shouldn’t look or act like a mature adult. He shouldn’t look so _haunted._ He shouldn’t act so hopeless. But he did, and he was, and he is, and it’s so awful that eventually, Megan has to leave, too tired of being the burden of bad news and too tired to try comforting him any more than she already had. Dean was dry. That was the only way to explain it.

And she was sure that the only way to bring him back was through Sam.

The 20 minute drive back to the motel room passed quickly, the scenery old and uninteresting. She sees a group of teenage kids—around Sam and Dean’s age, maybe—stumble out of an arcade, laughing and falling over each other, face splitting grins on their faces.

It occurs to her that she’d never seen Dean smile like that.

But Megan knew that Sam probably provoked that sort of behavior—the happiness. He can tell how important Sam is to Dean. She’s never heard of, let alone seen or met, siblings so close. With Sam’s muteness, she can see how that might affect their relationship, though. Her and her sister, Karly, were also brought closer by Karly’s disability. It’s the instinct to protect what is damaged. Megan knows. She _knows._

She pulls up at the motel and parks hastily, climbing out and with weak fingers, unlocks the door, stopping short in the threshold immediately.

Kyle Tedisco is hyperventilating.

And his eyes are open.

And he’s not where she left him on the bed, but instead, frozen in place by the kitchen table, slumped over.

She wants to let out some sort of victory cry, she wants to weep, because she’s so damned _relieved._ She’d had her doubts about if Kyle would wake up, and here he was, this kid that’d pulled through. This guy who’d…made it. He’d _made it._ He’d woken up, and that Ghul wasn’t in control of him anymore. He was _free._

And then her brain catches up to her, because he’s not going to make it if he suffocates himself. He needs oxygen, and he doesn’t need in the panicked little gasps he’s making right now.

Okay. _Stay calm. You can do this._

She rushes over to him, cupping his face, looking deep into his eyes, her own eyebrows pulling up in worry.

“Kyle.” She tries desperately. “Breathe. Can you do that for me?”

He tried to pull away from her but she kept her hold tight. “ _Kyle._ You _need_ to breathe. Deep breaths.” She pleads. “I’m not going to hurt you, I promise, and I’ll explain everything once you calm down.”

She starts to demonstrate a few deep breathes, in through her nose, and out through her mouth, encouraging with her eyes (hopefully) so that he would follow her lead.

It takes a few tries, but eventually, the terrified teenager remembers how to breathe properly, and he seems to be as calm as Megan was going to get him.

As soon as he is able to breathe in controlled breathes and not panicked huffs of breath, he draws away from her, and she lets him, knowing just how overwhelming this all must be.

“Who the hell are you? And where am I? And…and what happened to me?” He demands, his fists clenching at his sides, his blue eyes flashing with anger.

Megan remains as calm as she can with the excitement arising in her chest. Sam had a chance, he had a _chance,_ and however slim that chance might be it was a lot more than what she’d ever dared to hope for.

Maybe now, Dean might smile, knowing Sam just might pull through.

Megan doesn’t think it’s likely.

She runs a hand back through her red locks forcefully, and sits down at the kitchen table, gesturing as an invite for Kyle to do the same.

He does, however stiffly, which is more than Megan expected. Apparently, she’s grown used to Dean’s stubborn temper and expected it out of everyone else. It was a refreshing change to have her authority respected—it’s more like what she’s used to.

“My name is Megan Petersen. I’m 29 years old, and when I was around your age, I was taken too.” She lets that sink in for a minute, watches his face as it hardens. She can practically _see_ his walls go up, before they collapse again, and he’s left looking like a wounded puppy. She feels the instant urge to protect him.

“Taken.” He echoes, staring down at the table, and his clasped hands, which are now limp, instead of clenched. “I….I remember.”

Megan tilts her head thoughtfully, considers his words. “What do you remember, Kyle?” She asks.

Kyle’s brow knits in concentration. “I was walking.” He tells her, sounding uncertain, though his confidence in his memory grows as he speaks. “I was walking home from school, and I had headphones in—it was stupid of me, I know that now, but it’s just…I live in a really good neighborhood, you know? Small town, everyone knows everyone, that sort of thing. I never would have guessed that…” He shudders. “Monsters are real.”

“They’re as real as you and me,” Megan nods, her voice gentle. “So you were walking. And then what happened?”

Kyle’s tongue darts across his lips fast, like he’s nervous.

Megan suspects that that is it exactly. Thinking about what the Ghul did to her still, to this day, makes her uneasy.

“I stopped…because….because I was going to go to my friend’s house.” He recalls, nodding. “I didn’t want to go home.”

“Why not?” Megan can’t help but ask, intrigued.

“Home is bad.” Kyle whispers, his eyes shutting. “Both my parents died in a car accident when I was 6 years old. I’ve lived with my uncle ever since, and he blames me for their death. Because I survived the impact, and they….didn’t.”

Megan shudders sympathetically. She couldn’t even imagine what it must be like trying to grow up without the two most important people, the two biggest influences. And on top of that, to have to be raised by someone who thinks it’s your fault. Kyle was just a kid. A baby, even. 6 years old, when it happened.

She feels strangely proud of him for enduring.

Megan pulls her eyebrows up in worry. “I’m sorry.”

Kyle’s mouth twitches down, before he nods his thanks, and then goes still, looking haunted. “So, anyway, I was about to turn left, to head down to my friend’s house, when I hear this… _god awful_ growling sound—I swear I was positive I was being pursued by a bear or a mountain lion of something. When I turned around, it was just a flash of red light, and then I blacked out.” He explains softly.

Megan soaks that in, sitting in silence. Sam’s kidnapping was much more gruesome, there had been blood everywhere.

Though, Megan doesn’t remember seeing that many scratches and cuts on him.

She smiles a little, despite however inappropriate it may or may not be, when she realizes the blood must have belonged to the Ghul. Or at least, a good portion of it.

Sam really _did_ put up the fight of his life. Dean wasn’t kidding when he’d told her that Sam had excellent self defense skills.

“You never answered my other two questions.” He reminds her softly, breaking the silence. She’s still surprised to hear how gentle his voice is. She’d grown much too accustomed to snappy teenagers like Dean.

 “You’re at the Choice Motel, a little ways out from your hometown.” She tells him. “And as for what happened to you…”

“I was asleep.”

Megan purses her lips, humming thoughtfully. “Well, sort of. More unconscious than asleep, but potato po-tah-toe.” She shrugs, trying to lighten things a little.

Kyle looks up at her, eyes blank and uncomprehending. “I was dreaming.”

She shakes her head. “Not _technically._ The Ghul—that’s the name of the monster that took you—created this kind of…alternate reality for you, where everything you hate about your life was fixed. And while you live in this world it has created, your real body is in a coma sort of state, and it feeds on three things: Your blood, your life force, and your innocence.” She tells him.

Kyle takes that in, and just sits there for what seems like a long time, but probably is only about 10 minutes, before he nods, finally. “I believe you.”

He holds up his wrists, the ones that Megan had sewn shut while he was still asleep. The stitches were angry, and red.

 She nods carefully.

Neither of them say anything about it, though.

He looks at her. “Why am I here with you? Did you rescue me or something?”

Megan cracks a smile. “Not exactly. It’s….sort of a long story.”

Kyle settles into his chair, and gives her a meaningful look, as if to say, _what else have we got to do?_

And so she explains it all—starting from when she was taken, to when Dean called her for her help, and why he did, and concluding with Dean’s little brother being stuck in the same state Kyle just woke up from. She didn’t mention his muteness. She didn’t know why, exactly, but some part of her told her that Dean would be angry if she did. So she just explained that Sam hated his life because of how his family hunted, and he didn’t want to be a hunter. It seemed true enough.

“Wait.” Kyle barks suddenly. “You said his name was _Sam_?”

Megan frowns. She’s not sure why that’s significant to Kyle but she nods hesitantly, in agreement, and his eyes get wide and really excited. “Oh, my god.” He breathes. “Sam _Winchester_.”

“Kyle…” She hints, waiting for him to explain, because she’s not following any of this and it’s really damn frustrating.

He seems to blink out of his trance, and he turns to her. “Sam was in my dream. Or, my, whatever, alternate reality. He’s…nice.”

“You talked to him?” Megan leans forward across the table, her heart racing. She feels strangely excited, like Sam is a celebrity that Kyle was privileged enough to meet.

It feels like an accurate description. From what Dean’s hinted at, Sam is a pretty amazing kid, and Megan _wants_ to meet him.

She doubts that Sam will care much for her presence if— _when, when—_ he wakes up, and that’s if Dean will let him go 3 feet away from him at any given time, which also didn’t seem likely, but. Megan could hope.

Sam seemed like someone she’d get along well with.

“Did he seem to know that something was…off?” Megan frowned. If Sam was self-aware, then it would make this entire thing a hell of a lot easier.

Kyle shakes his head. “No. Perfectly normal. If anything, a little shy.” He smiles at whatever memory he must be recalling of a timid Sam, and Megan feels jealous. She too wants to know of this wonder of a boy Dean is so ready to die for. More eager than anything she’d ever seen in someone before the Winchesters.

Kyle glances over at her sharply, and his breath catches. “Is he..?” He trails off, looking wildly concerned for someone he’d only met in a dream, with wide, worried eyes and clenched fists and breath that is catching on his inhale. (She’s hoping he won’t start hyperventilating again because that would be shitty since he _just_ calmed down)

It made Megan want to meet Sam that much more—if Kyle was this worked up about someone he barely knew, Sam has _got_ to be a pretty amazing kid. Something that felt strong and maternal ached in her chest. She felt unrightfully protective over Sam. She thinks Dean is wearing off on her.

“It’s…probable…that Sam might make it.” She thinks her voice doesn’t sound as reassuring as she’d meant for it to be, but Kyle nods, seeming comforted enough.

“Probable.” Kyle repeats with a dry voice.

Megan watches him stare at the table for a long time before he glances up at her, face earnest, leaning forward and getting in her space which she wants to pull away from, but refrains, with some control.

“Please,” Kyle begs. “How can I help?”

-

**Dear J,**

**I wish Dean loved me the way I will always love him.**

**When I was younger, and I imagined what my first love would be like, I never pictured it like this. I never pictured the pain, the constant ache in my chest. Walt Disney is a bastard, and every _romcom_ can burn in hell, right there beside the Notebook and Titanic. So, to my innocent, younger self, who doesn’t know the pain of _unrequited love_ , just the pain of stepping barefoot onto a pile of Lego….here. Have this. It’ll make your life easier, kid. Or maybe not. **

** Sam Winchesters Guidelines on Growing Up  **

  1. **When you love him, and he doesn’t love you back, that’s called _heartbreak,_ and it hurts like a son of a bitch. Worse than any bullet wound I’ve ever had. But you’ll live. Remember _that,_ if nothing else. You’ll live through it all, even the worst parts that seem like the end of the world. You’ll be okay. **
  2. **When said object of affection is totally out of your league and 120% off limits, that’s called _he’s your brother_ and _brothers don’t do that_ and it’s going to want to make you kill yourself but _don’t_.**
  3. **I don’t know why you shouldn’t do that yet, because I’m still holding off for some sort of miracle. When I figure out what’s worth living for, (it’s Dean, it has to be Dean) I’ll let you know.**
  4. **That miracle won’t be that he magically falls in love with you. Don’t be stupid enough to hope for that or in the end you’ll get hurt worse than when you look over and see him smiling at someone who isn’t you.**
  5. **Don’t try to win his affection by making him angry and protective of you. That’s stupid and selfish and he worries so just….don’t use that against him. Desperate times _do not_ call for desperate measures. Not with this. **
  6. **You’re going to want to ask Bobby if he’ll be attending yours and Dean’s wedding when your 6, and Bobby will just think you mean _your_ wedding, and then, _Dean’s_ wedding. Not like you’re marrying each other. Don’t correct him, even if that isn’t what you mean. It’s not worth the way he watches you and Dean together afterwards. Trust me on that.**
  7. **Love is something dad doesn’t really feel all that strongly towards you but he does love Dean, so don’t complain about dad and all the shitty ways he treats you so much so that Dean feels obligated to hate him too. That’s wrong and you know it. Dean is good. He deserves a father.**
  8. **Don’t fall in love with your own big brother in the first place and you might grow up okay.**
  9. **There’s probably a 0.00001% chance of the above happening so when you do fall in love with Dean, and you will, whatever you do…don’t let him know.**



Dean runs his fingertips across the page, the words traced over to be what looks like many times, as if Sam was repeating them to himself by rewriting it all again on top of itself.

“Just wake the hell up already, so I can explain how wrong you are.” Dean pleads.

Sam is still in that unmoving position, looking asleep or maybe dead. Dean is holding his hand, and he’s not crying, he’s _not._ His eyes are only damp because he’s frustrated.

But there’s hope. Dean has to believe there’s hope, because if there isn’t, it means that everything he’s ever known is gone and Sam won’t ever wake up and he’ll live his entire life at Sam’s bedside because he knows without a doubt he’ll never be able to leave him.

“Sammy.” And his voice is a sigh. “You gonna keep me here for the rest of my life?” And the words sound more weighted than he intends, and he rests his head on Sam’s chest, letting his head rise and fall as Sam’s chest does.

He had to hope.

-

Sam’s making his mother spaghetti in case she’s hungry when she gets back from work, never mind the fact that he’s technically supposed to be sick. It feels like the right thing to do and he’s tired of sitting around and wondering what really happened to get him stuck in the state he’s in, so spaghetti it is.

As he’s stirring the pot of noodles, there’s a voice, whispery soft and unmistakably Dean’s in his head.

_Sammy. You gonna keep me here for the rest of my life?_

Sam stops stirring for a moment.

The real Dean was at the real Sam’s bedside, unable to leave because he felt obligated to stay with him, because Sam had no one else, because there was no one else to care.

“Sorry.” Sam whispers, as he resumes his work, knowing Dean can’t hear him, and feeling the need to voice his regret because in this world, it is the only time he _can_ use his voice, for anything. And he always thought that if he’d been granted words, he’d use them to apologize for being a burden. “I’m sorry.” He repeats. “You can leave me. I know you want to.”

And he pretends like Dean can hear him, and like he understands, and in his head. Dean leaves, and he goes on to live some amazing life, full of safety and love and kids and grandkids and guess what? He even names one after Sam. That’s the life he sees for Dean.

And Sam can have his own little paradise here, in his own head, where he can make Dean love him and he can speak and their father doesn’t look at him like he’s a burden, and his mother is still alive.

Sam was still going to stay.

He could fix this life. He _could._

He hoped Dean realized that he wasn’t going to wake up soon, because Sam wanted better for him.

 _Keep hunting,_ he wishes at Dean in his mind, which is stupid, but it makes Sam feel better. _Find someone who loves you the way you deserve and isn’t your little brother. Be safe. Be happy. Please, please, just be happy._

Sam moves to start the meat sauce.

And he lets his mind blank.

-

**Dear J,**

**School sucks, and hotels suck, and the highway views get old really fast, but driving at night is when I’m my happiest. Dad will be quietly sitting upfront, and the radio will be on loud enough that Dean can whisper to me without dad hearing, but so loud so that it’s hard to think, and the engine will just purr beneath us like she always does, taking us away to somewhere else. And the sky…the sky will be just the right kind of darkness, and once we get far away enough from the cities, the stars will shine so brightly, like never before, and the moon will blanket the roads like a protector.**

**And it just makes you feel so damn _small._**

**Maybe some people think that feeling small is a bad thing—and it definitely can be. But when I look up at the stars and feel small, it’s _beautiful._**

**It’s like, all my problems seem so suffocating to me, so huge and so unsolvable and most of the time I don’t even know where to _start_ fixing them, y’know? But I look up and I remember that I’m just a person. Just one, tiny person. **

**I’m just a blip on this huge, huge, map, and I’m so insignificant that it doesn’t matter what I do because people are still living and kids are still learning how to be adults and somewhere in the world someone is falling in love with their Soulmate and even if I die or suddenly dropped off the face of the earth life will keep going and happiness will still be around spreading like the plague because I don’t matter in the grand scheme and the universe doesn’t stop for anything or anyone, let alone a stupid teenage boy who doesn’t even have a roof and four walls to call his own.**

**It’s a comfort, and I know it really shouldn’t be, but it is.**

**And then I look at Dean, and everything is twisted, it’s all backwards from looking at the sky, because he looks at me like I’m the center of his world, and it hurts, it _hurts,_ because I know how much he loves me (even if it’s not in the way I’ll always love him) and I know that if something happened to me, Dean couldn’t just keep going along with the rest of the planet. He couldn’t just keep on truckin’. Because whatever happened, he’d feel responsible. No matter what, it’s just how he _is._**

**And knowing that I am inevitably going to be the one to ruin my brother, is the weight that I carry around every day. Knowing that when I die before him (I say when and not if because I don’t want to think about living without Dean) he’s going to be the kind of broken no one can fix.**

**And that’s terrifying.**

_The kind of broken no one can fix._

Dean doesn’t know how long he sat there with his fingers paused over those words, like he was a blind man trying to read in braille, when the front door opens, and who he guesses to be Megan, steps inside.

Dean only guesses it’s probably her because anyone else wouldn’t be able to get into the room without a loud noise and some sort of lock breaking technique, but Megan had a key. He doesn’t raise his head to confirm who it actually is, though, because he doesn’t care, even when a second set of footsteps follow the first.

If someone wants to attack him, fine.

He’d like to see them try.

If they want to attack Sam, sure, go ahead.

Dean will kill them. And he won’t think twice about it.

“Dean.” Megan’s voice is excited, and if Dean didn’t know any better….he’d almost say Megan sounded _giddy._ It’s not fair. Dean is so dark right now, he’s dark and sad and destructively angry, it’s _not fair_ for her to bound in here with her good feelings and try to rub them all over him.

He doesn’t look up. “I told you I needed some time alone with Sam.” He says, working to make his voice soft. He doesn’t _need_ to be sharp, however tempting it was. “Please.”

“Dean, for the love of- _just look up.”_

And for some reason, he does.

And when he sees none other than the familiar red headed beauty, and beside her, a very alive, very _awake_ Kyle Tedisco, Dean wants to punch something. Preferably Kyle.

Because _what the hell,_ how is it fair for this kid to survive, this nobody to wake up and talk and walk around when the most important one, _Dean’s kid, Sammy Winchester,_ was still dead/asleep/who-knows-what-because-he’s-unconscious and probably will stay that way for a while?

Dean turns back to Sam. “Congratulations, kid.” He says sharply, voice dripping heavy with sarcasm he just can’t refrain from. “Welcome to the wonderful land of the conscious. Enjoy your stay.”

“Um, thanks...” Kyle says awkwardly. Dean doesn’t look up to see his face any more, because of the overwhelming urge to hurt it.

It’s irrational—of course it is. When has Dean ever been rational when it comes to Sam?

Kyle was an innocent.

But so was Sam. And Sam deserves to be awake just as much as Kyle.

_More, he deserves it more._

“Dean, just listen for a minute, okay? I have an idea of how we can wake Sam up.” Megan says brightly. “And I’m pretty confident in it.”

Dean stares at them, looking away from Sam only to see Kyle’s gaze is directly on his baby brother. He resists the urge to cover Sam up with the blanket to shield him from Kyle’s gaze, just barely able to refrain. He can’t help snapping, “Stop staring at him.”

And Kyle blinks his surprise away, and stares at the floor instead. “Sam’s my friend.” He says in a small but determined voice. “And I want to help him.”

“Your _friend.”_ Dean scoffs. As if. Sam is _his,_ and he doesn’t want to share with _anyone_. Especially not Kyle—the teenager rubs him the wrong way, because he’s awake, and Sam isn’t, and maybe that’s unfair of him to dislike someone for fighting for their consciousness and winning, but Dean can’t help but feel angry. Sam was still stuck in his own head. Sam might be stuck there a while. “You’ve never met the guy.”

That’s when Megan jumps in to explain that Kyle _has_ met Sam, only in a dream, though. Only in the alternative universe the Ghul placed them in. They were apparently _friends._

“You don’t know anything about him,” Dean snaps when their story is done. “Don’t pretend like you’re buddie-buddie just because you met him in a dream.”

“He told me he likes English.” Kyle blurts thoughtfully. “I don’t know why, I just thought that was so cool. Like, I’ve never met anyone who actually genuinely is interested in English. I always thought it was so boring, y’know? But Sam….Sam seemed to love it.”

“He told you.” Dean echoes, amused. Sam was never the best at communicating with people—he wondered if maybe Kyle thought he was special because Sam decided he was worth the time to _write a note._ Dean gets notes all the time. Bonus: they have their own secret language. Sam writes things on Dean’s chest.

He’s willing to bet that Sam _didn’t_ do that for Kyle.

“Yeah.” Kyle says easily. “Why? Is that weird?”

“How did he tell you?” Dean demands, suddenly on his feet and looming over Kyle. Well, as much as he could when Kyle was almost as tall as him, anyway.

Kyle backs off from the confrontation just a little, barely noticeable, but Dean was waiting for defiance he didn’t get, so he sees and he won’t deny he takes a little pleasure out of seeing Kyle shrink down just a centimeter. Still, though, he keeps eye contact with Dean as he muttered, “He spoke. Like a normal person?”

And that.

Fucking _that._

Dean sees red, and suddenly him and Kyle are halfway across the room and Dean is slamming Kyle into a wall. “Sam is a _mute.”_ Dean hisses, his long fingers coiling around Kyle’s neck. “It doesn’t mean he’s not a _normal person._ He’s a damn good kid, far better than you. He’s not some— _alien,_ because he _can’t talk._ He’s smart and he’s kind and he’s everything. He’s everything.” He barks in Kyle’s face, watching with dark satisfaction as Kyle struggles to free himself, to no avail. Dean is far too angry, Kyle is far too inexperienced.

“Mute?” Kyle chokes, because yeah, maybe it wasn’t mentioned that Sam hated his life because he was a mute, because Sam’s muteness was _theirs,_ and it wasn’t exactly something Dean wanted to put up on a billboard on the highway for all to know. His muteness was a weakness, and the less who knew, the better. Megan had told Kyle that Sam didn’t like his life, because of the way he was raised as a hunter.

Dean presses harder against Kyle’s windpipes, and he can vaguely hear Megan protesting in the background but it’s difficult to try to hear anything, really, over the rushing of blood in his ears, but he knows without a doubt that she’s going to try to separate them soon, and Dean isn’t finished. “ _Yes._ But Sam’s muteness isn’t of _your_ concern.” Dean spits.

Kyle is gasping now, and Megan’s voice finally enters his consciousness. “Dean! You’ll kill him!”

Dean almost wanted to. He almost wanted to just keep pressing all the fight out of Kyle but while Dean might be a killer, he doesn’t kill humans. He doesn’t kill innocents.

No matter how much of an asshole those innocents might be.

He presses just a little harder to watch Kyle’s eyes bulge out of his head, before it hits him.

Kyle said Sam spoke.

He _spoke._

And maybe that shouldn’t come as a surprise to him—after all, that was Sam’s biggest fluke, was it not? _That_ was the thing Sam wanted to change. That was the thing he hated most.

He lets go of Kyle, his entire body feeling limp though he manages to take three large strides away, and he collapses when he feels the edge of the bed against the back of his knees, sitting in a heap at Sam’s feet.

“He spoke.” Dean is aware how empty his own voice sounds. “He just…spoke.”

Kyle is wheezing, obviously too distracted fighting for air to answer.

Dean thinks he’s being overdramatic. It wasn’t even like he pressed _that_ hard.

He waits until Megan soothes Kyle into a normal breathing pattern, before he asks. “What did he sound like? His voice.” Dean demands to know.

It wasn’t fair, this _wasn’t fair._

His entire life, all Dean ever dreamed about was Sam waking him up one morning, and nudging him, and saying his name in a whisper so private, it was just for him. It wouldn’t be to show off that he can talk, it would just be because he would have _wanted_ to taste the name on his lips, feel the way it rolls off his tongue.

It would’ve been amazing.

He wondered if Sam’s voice was strong and all-knowing, or shy and hesitant, and then he decided that, like Sam, it was probably a mix of the two.

Kyle hasn’t answered him yet.

Dean glares, and the kid sputters. “Um, he sounded…normal?”

It shouldn’t be a satisfying answer, but for some reason, it is, and Dean is pleased. He nods.

Normal. That sounded…safe. It sounded good.

Dean bets Sam sounds good.

“I brought Kyle here for a reason.” Megan interrupts finally, getting them back on track.

Dean’s gaze flickers up to her, a question in his eyes. “And that reason was?”

“There’s this woman, goes by the name Meredith. No one really knows her last name, or her real name, because she moves around so often, but she’s said to be an extremely practiced and talented dream walker.” Megan sounds excited, but when she’s done talking, all Dean feels is dread.

“Seriously?” The dread quickly turns to anger. This emotional rollercoaster hasn’t yet reached its peak. “My _baby brother_ is in a coma, and you decide to call up some _fake hoodoo witch?_ By the way, Megan, _witches_ fake or real, can’t be trusted! _Ever._ I’ve been around the block enough times to know that.” He hisses.

Kyle looks down at the ground. He doesn’t say anything, for which Dean is grateful. He’s sure that if that punk opened his mouth and tried to _console_ Dean, Dean wouldn’t be able to refrain from at least breaking his nose.

He’s not been feeling very friendly lately.

Dean feels a little like a lifetime long cocaine addict when taken cold turkey off his drug.

“She’s the real deal.” Megan argues. “Jacob, my husband,” She begins, speaking quicker when she reads into Dean’s disbelief. “He’s used her before, to get into my nightmares, because I could never remember them when I woke up, but I’d been getting real wounds from them.” Her voice grows soft, fond, when she talkers about her husband. It’s a little endearing, actually, but Dean is still too livid to take much notice to it. “Turns out I was being haunted by a poltergeist than could only appear in nightmares.”

“Meredith, what she does, is a lot like what the dream-root can do. She sends people into others dreams. Only, what she does is much safer than using the dream root, because she can pull you back whenever she senses things are too dangerous.” Megan explains. “Just…trust me, okay? Aren’t you willing to try anything to get Sam back?”

And _that_ was a low blow if Dean ever saw one, because she _knows_ how far Dean would go for Sam, and to use that as leverage to get him to agree? Not exactly the purest thing to do. Then again, it was true, and if there was even the slightest chance this could help Sam…

“Wait. How can this help Sam?” He narrows his eyes.

“In the….dream land….the Ghul creates for you, you _have_ to be self-aware. You have to realize that this isn’t real, and you need to wake up.” Kyle intervenes quietly, still refusing to meet Dean’s eyes.

Coward.

“And how does Sam wake himself up?” Dean demands, fists clenching in the bed sheets that engulf Sam. “How did you wake yourself up?”

Kyle looks up then, finally, and his blue eyes look empty and haunted. “First, you have to know that something is weird, that something _isn’t right._ Then…” He shudders, wetting his lips, his voice going kitten-soft. “You have to kill yourself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is titled after lyrics from the song Draw Your Swords by Angus & Julia Stone and it was suggested by the lovely tomhankys on tumblr! 
> 
> Also, the lyric from the very beginning is from the song To the Hills by Laurel and it was suggested by another reader (sorry, I forgot to take note of the user name D: )
> 
> As always, my tumblr inbox is always open, and I'd love to hear your suggestions on wincest songs for chapters/lyrics (:   
> my tumblr is wincestplease.tumblr.com


	9. A Voice Within That Calls Me Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you don't talk, you listen.  
> And you understand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be very careful with this chapter, loves, and read the tags!! There is threats of suicide, mentions of suicide, and some pretty strong daddy issues. Read with caution!

**"Everybody wants the one to make them live forever." - _Ingrid Michaelson, Open Hands_**

-

Mary comes home eventually, and she exclaims something about how she’s so glad Sam feels better, and she accepts the spaghetti gratefully, and Sam offers to make dinner as well but she refuses to let him, and sends him back to bed to make sure that he really _is_ okay, and Sam obliges because he knows Dean will be getting home from school soon, and he doesn’t want to face him now.

Or ever, if possible.

 If only Sam was strong enough to live without him. Even if this Dean is not the Dean he truly knows, Sam needs him. He needs some variation of Dean in his life.

And it’s wrong, and it scares him to death, but that doesn’t mean it’s any less true.

So he falls asleep, in a bed that only _he_ has ever slept on, in his own room, with his own view of their own backyard, and he feels good, because the supernatural doesn’t exist here and nothing is going to attack him in his sleep, and even though there is no butterfly knife under his pillow, Sam feels at ease. He feels _safe._

He falls asleep thinking that the same feeling, the safety, comes when he is with Dean, and this is the first time he’s ever felt so secure, while alone.

-

“Sammy’s going to have to….kill himself.” Dean repeats.

Kyle looks at his toes.

Megan stares at the ceiling.

Dean just sits by Sam and feels empty.

He wants to be empty. He just wants this to all be over and he wants Sam to wake up without having to do that to himself because there is _no way_ someone can just kill themselves and wake up from that okay because they _can’t_ and Sam might be the strongest kid Dean knows but he’s still _just a kid._

 A kid that was way too young to have to be dragged into the middle of all this, to young to know how to shoot a gun too young to have to kill himself to return to Dean and for a second, Dean remembers John. Because who the hell introduced him to all this evil in the first place, if not for his father?

And he has to call him, because even though he knows John can never love Sam the way Dean loves him, he’s still Sam’s father and he deserves to know that Sam might never wake up again because he’s probably happy in that other life.

It doesn’t make sense for Sam to come back to a world where he can’t talk, a world where he’s sure that the only one who’s ever been there for him, hates him, and thinks he’s disgusting.

Sam is happy where he is.

And _fuck,_ just knowing that _hurts._

“I just…let me call my dad, okay?”

He doesn’t wait to hear their answers because if either of them is stupid enough to tell him _no,_ or _wait_ he doesn’t want to snap and hurt them.

Well, part of him does.

Not Kyle and Megan _specifically,_ but someone. Something. He wants someone to blame and hurt and the only person he can come up with is himself now that the Ghul is gone and he knows that _he_ can’t hurt _himself_ any more than Sam is hurting him right now by not moving, but not _waking up._

Because if Sam never wakes up, he’s dead. Dead to this world, alive only in a fake place Dean can never be a part of.

He doesn’t leave Sam, because he’s _not going to leave him, ever,_ and when they all sit there for a moment, he huffs in frustration. “Privacy, please?” And he kind of wants to laugh, because if they thought he was going step outside and leave his defenseless kid all alone, even though he _does_ trust Megan more than most people Dean’s only had a week to get to know, they were kidding themselves.

 _Not going anywhere,_ he promises Sam silently, tapping his kids shin soothingly. _Not anytime soon._

And then he pulls out his phone, and as he’s calling John, he also remembers Bobby, and yeah, it’s a little shocking he ever really forgot, because _come on_ but in his defense there was a lot going on and now that he has some answers there is a lull in the storm and not a big one but it’s enough that he can let some people know that Sam is gone for now, and he might be for…forever.

Yeah.

If there was one word Dean would use to describe how he’s been feeling ever since he let Sam get away, it’d definitely be empty.

“Dean.” John’s voice is stiff, and Dean’s a little surprised he even answered. Which is shitty. A father should always answer their children’s call. Right? Dean can’t be sure, not really. John is the only dad he’s ever had.

Though, Bobby was always like a father to him, and he _always_ picked up the phone.

“I can’t talk right now, boy. I’m busy.”

And that. There it is, what Dean was waiting for. Because _of course_ John would only answer if it was to inform Dean that he was _busy._

“You’re busy.” Dean monotones.

“I’m too busy to talk, yes. Is that a problem?” John snaps, and Dean can tell he’s not in a good mood, but he’s not drunk, and Dean is glad for that. It’ll mean that when he delivers the blow about Sam John is going to hurt like Dean is. Not as much. Never as much. But he won’t have the alcohol to soothe his pain.

And damn if that doesn’t make Dean just a little bit smug.

He wants someone to hurt with him.

Dean sees red.

“Yeah, actually, it is!” He yells suddenly, not caring if Kyle and Megan could hear him from outside the motel room door. “Sam is asleep and he might never, ever wake up again.”

Dean is well aware that Sam’s latest opinion of John, the one he had when he was taken, was that their father hated  him, thought he was stupid, that he saw his youngest son as a burden, a liability.

John loves Sam, Dean knows that. He just has never known how to love him in the right way. He’s been an asshole to Sam too often. He’s been the cause of Sam’s tears more times than he’s patiently wiped them away. _(Because it was always Dean doing the tear-drying, it was always Dean picking up the pieces after John broke Sam down again and again.)_

Dean is pretty sure Sam knows too, that dad loves him, somewhere deep down, but he’s also sure Sam thinks that John just pities him, and that pity is not love.

Which, yeah. Pity _isn’t_ love. You can’t feel bad for someone and shield them from everything and think that should count as affection. But he knows that a part of John really does love Sam…just not _enough._ It will never be enough.

John’s silence is satisfying, but Dean’s satisfaction grows when he sounds a little broken. Not wrecked, not destroyed, like Dean, but broken. Wounded. _Hurt._ “What.” It’s not a question, more of a demand, really.

It makes Dean angry, but he replies, because he knows it will hurt his dad more to hear the details.

“That case you assigned me, the one you wanted me to do _so badly?_ ” Dean explains, liking that this sounded like it was all John’s fault.  “Yeah. It was a Ghul. Nasty things, apparently. Close cousins of the Jinn—you remember them, don’t you?—and they take kids. Kids Sam’s age, kids who don’t like their life. And it feeds off of them—their blood, their innocence, and their life force. And Sam got taken.”

“So find him.” John demands.

It’s all Dean has not to throw his phone into the concrete and let it smash into a million pieces. “I _did.”_ He snarls. “Which is more than you can say. I mean, seriously. You don’t really even sound like you _care.”_

“I do.” John nearly growls. “Sam is my _son._ Of course I care.”

Dean has to force himself to look at Sam’s face in order to calm down.

Because their father has never really cared.

“He’s stuck inside his own head. This…alternate reality. And he has to _realize_ that he’s in a dream, which, I mean.” He lets out a little laugh, dry, and without humor. “It’s _Sam,_ I think that it’s pretty obvious that he must have realized, the kids a genius,” Dean adds, just because he knows his dad doesn’t think so.

But he is.

 He _is._

“And secondly, if he wants to wake up, he has to…just like how it is for a Jinn…he has to kill himself. In the dream. Kill…you know. The _fake_ version of himself. Which I’m not so sure he’ll even _do._ He can talk in that world. He can live a normal life. And mom is probably alive, and I bet he’s your golden boy, and everything is probably fucking perfect, so what reason would he have to come back to this shithole of a life?” Dean sighs. He feels old. He’s only 19, but he feels ancient. Old, and weary, and exhausted. “ _What reason_ could ever be enough to bring him back from paradise?”

He takes a moment to compose himself because he refuses to let John hear him cry, to let his dad see him so weak and vulnerable.

“The worst part is…I can’t even blame him. There is no reason for him to come back.” Dean finishes softly.

“He has obligations to this family. He’ll find a way. He’s a Winchester.”

“ _He has obligations?”_ Dean roars. “Are you fucking _kidding_ me? You think he’s going to come back because he’s _obligated_ to?” He growls. “He’s happy. The life he’s living inside his own head right now is better than this one will _ever_ be, and doesn’t he deserve that?” Dean can feel his anger breaking into something frail again, and he just wishes to be numb, wishes to feel empty once more. It would numb this roaring pain in his chest. “Doesn’t he deserve to have something good for once?”

“Hunters don’t get good things, Dean.” Now _John_ is the one who sounds old and tired. “It’s the life.”

“Well the life is shitty, and Sam deserves fucking better.” He whispers. _Sam deserves so much better. Sam deserves every-fucking-thing ever_ and Dean wants to give him the entire world in a pretty red bow and it probably still wouldn’t be all that Sam deserved.

 He’s not going to cry, though. He’s cried enough.

He’s just empty.

“Are you going to come or not?” Dean asks finally.

“Why would I? To watch Sam lay there and do nothing? People are dying, Dean.”

“People are _always_ dying.” And fuck it, because if a tear is escaping and rolling down his cheek, no one else is going to know about it. Dean wipes it away, fast, staring at the tip of his now wet finger like it’s a traitor. “People die every damn day and you always save them so guess who’s next on the chopping block, dad? Huh? It’s your son.”

“Sam will be fine. He’ll figure this out.”

“Not him.” Dean shakes his head, another tear falling. “Not Sam.” Because Sam might stay forever in a world Dean can never see, speaking in his voice that Dean will never hear, but he won’t die because of it. He’ll die with old age. He’ll die happy.

But Dean. He’s the one in danger of death.

Call him cliché, bring on the Romeo and Juliet references.

Dean can’t _exist_ without Sam, let alone _live_.

He can’t.

“Dean?” John asks, sounding confused.

Well, then, let Dean just clear that up for him.

“If Sam doesn’t wake up,” Dean swallows. “I’ll kill myself. Because I refuse to live without him.”

And he doesn’t wait to hear what his dad has to say about _staying strong_ and _suicide is for the weak, Dean,_ because he doesn’t care.

He hangs up.

Throws his phone across the room.

It doesn’t break, but Dean half wishes it would’ve.

Because if he can’t live his life with Sam, he doesn’t want to live it all.

-

Sam wakes up to the all too familiar whispering in his ear, and it’s the voice that makes his chest ache, and he feels hollow in a way no one but Dean can fix.

It’s considerably darker, maybe 4 or 5PM, and Sam gets up in a trance to close his door and then he settles back on his bed.

_That case you assigned me, the one you wanted me to do so badly?_

Sam swallows.

It’s Dean.

Dean is talking about him.

He knows this somehow. He _knows_ it’s true.

_Yeah. It was a Ghul. Nasty things, apparently. Close cousins of the Jinn—you remember them, don’t you?—and they take kids. Kids Sam’s age, kids who don’t like their life. And it feeds off of them—their blood, their innocence, and their life force. And Sam got taken._

And now he knows for sure.

Dean was telling someone about his situation.

Sam committed his words to memory.

 _Ghul._ He tells himself feverishly, willing himself to not forget. _Like the Jinn. Taken. Kids._

It all seems very choppy when he tries to think the words over again his mind, tries to _connect_ them…but their weightless.  Meaningless.

“Sam!” Mary calls from downstairs. “Dinner is ready! If you’re feeling up to it, you can come on down! It’s chicken noodle soup, your favorite! I can get Dean to bring you up some if you’d rather that!”

And Sam puts his hands over his ears protectively, because with Mary yelling at him from downstairs, and Dean’s whispery soft voice in his head, it’s just so _loud_ and he can’t make out what Dean is saying, and he keeps his hands there and his eyes screwed shut tightly until Mary stops yelling and it’s just Dean’s voice, and he takes his hands off his ears and _breathes._ He’s praying he didn’t miss anything important.

_He’s stuck inside his own head._

Like that wasn’t something Sam already knew.

He listens for Dean’s voice again, strains for it, and he _does_ hear it, but it’s so faint he can’t make out the words, until finally, it cuts out all together, and Sam is left feeling more alone than he ever had before.

He curls in on himself. “I’m not hungry!” He calls to Mary, testing out how it feels to use his voice to yell.

It feels good.

He wishes he could yell at John, at Dean, at himself.

At the world.

Instead, Sam just tucks his legs up to his chest, rests his chin on his knees.

And he thinks about the way it felt to come home to Dean’s embrace.

-

Dean tucks his phone into his pocket and calls Megan and Kyle back in.

They don’t ask what was said. They don’t ask why Dean’s eyes are red rimmed, or why his hands have a tremble to their movement.

They don’t ask anything.

And Dean is glad.

“So.” He clears his throat loudly, to get their attention (as if he didn’t already have it) “You said Sam has to kill himself.”

Megan nods hesitantly, as if she’s afraid this is some kind of trap.

“So the plan, then.” Dean continues, his hand playing with Sam’s fingers absently. His kids hand is cold. Like a dead persons.

He shudders.

“Is to send me into Sam’s dream, get him to kill himself, and then…. _bam,_ he wakes up, I come back, and it’s a happily ever after, is it not?” Dean smiles, and it feels fake because it _is_ fake.

“Not…exactly.” Megan hedges.

Kyle looks uncomfortable.

“There is likely already a version of you in Sam’s head.” She explains in a murmur. “And if we send _you_ in there, things might get sticky with two of you running around. We’re not sure how that all works, Dean. It’s too risky.”

“For me, or for him?” Dean narrows his eyes.

“For _both.”_   Megan snaps.

“He’s _my brother.”_ Dean argues, like it is an explanation for everything.

“And he’s my friend.” Kyle interrupts, looking up at Dean with something like determination mixed with fear and a little bit of hope. “It’s too dangerous for you, and Sam doesn’t know Megan, but he knows me, and he’ll listen to me.”

Dean really, _really_ wants to hit him, and maybe for no good reason other than _Sam is his_ and not Kyle’s, and that should be the end of it. Dean should be the one to save Sam. It’s always been his job. Dean wants to be the arms Sam flings himself into. Dean wants to be his salvation.

He always has been. He doesn’t know any different.

“I’ve already called Meredith. She’s on her way, she’s about three hours out.” Megan says icily. “Kyle will go explain to Sam that--”

“That _what,_ Megan?” Dean snaps, his lips pulling back from his teeth in something of a feral snarl. He feels more animal than human. It’s a good feeling. He feels ready for a fight. He wants a fight. “That he has to kill himself? That…that he’s got to end all the happiness he has right now?” It’s so selfish, _God,_ Dean _knows_ it is. Brining Sam back to this hell when he was probably having the time of his life, with friends, and a voice, and a mother and a father who _love_ and _accept_ him, and isn’t that more than he’ll ever have in the real world?

But Sam is going to come back, Dean _has_ to be the one to bring him back.

Because Dean needs Sam like he needs air, and it’s getting harder and harder to breathe with every passing second that Sam doesn’t open his eyes, and just the knowledge that Sam may never be as he was, that he might refuse all together to do what must be done is scarring the hell out of him.

Sam is Dean’s ultimate weakness, and it’s never been a secret.

And now Sam’s in trouble, and it’s Dean’s fault for not protecting him, and if Sam has nightmares or if he gets that vacant look on his face when he remembers what happened to him, _it will always be because of Dean._ Dean will always be the one to blame.

“Meredith is on her way.” Megan reminds him, seemingly aware that he’s a little lost in his own thoughts.

“Good.” Dean smiles. It’s not a nice smile. More like the smile of someone very ready to do whatever is necessary to get back the one who means the world to him.

“And Kyle is going to save Sam.”

“I’m going to save Sam.” Dean corrects casually, like it’s obvious. And it is. Who does Kyle think he is, acting as though Sam is Louis Lane and he is diving in to save the day?

“ _Kyle.”_

“You can keep saying it, Megan.” Dean tells her cheerily. “But it won’t make it any more true. Sam is my baby brother, he’s my responsibility, and I’m going to be the one to make this right. If you try and get in my way, I _will_ stop you.” Dean doesn’t elaborate on _how_ exactly he plans to stop her, because he’s not entirely sure himself. He just knows that he is willing to do whatever it takes to see Sam’s beautiful hazel eyes trained on him again, to see that dimpled smile light up yet another room.

No one is going to get in the way of Dean and his kid.

Sam has so much life left to live, out here in the real world, be it shitty or not, and Dean is going to make damn sure Sam gets every second he deserves.

 _Dean_ is.

Not Kyle.

Because Sam is _his._

-

Mary ends up sending Dean up with dinner, but Dean doesn’t say anything to him; just hands him the food and leaves, and Sam sits in his room and eats it alone.

When he’s finished, stomach full and heart aching, he sets his dishes on his bedside table to deal with later, and pulls up his laptop. He hadn’t checked the search history on the laptop before, so he quickly does it now, which is no help. There’s nothing, it’s as if the laptop has never been used before, other than to update the desktop picture to a shot of John, Mary, and Sam and Dean together on some picturesque beach, a memory where he looked blissfully unaware of the truth. Sam had no recollection of any such thing happening—the only beaches he remembered where when dad had a hunt near someplace sandy, and Dean would pull him out of school so they could escape the heat together.

Sam realizes his hands are shaking, so he stops thinking about Dean.

Closes his eyes.                                                                                            

He waits until he feels stable again, and then types in, _Ghul legend._

He gets nothing, and google is positive he’s misspelled _ghoul,_ which, no. He’s dealt with ghouls before—dad broke his leg trying to put down one—and they definitely didn’t trap people inside their own brains. The search results only showed ghoul Halloween costumes. Nothing useful at all.

He tried various spellings of the name, trying to recall Dean’s voice as he said it, wondering if maybe he’d misheard, but he knows that that couldn’t be true.

If there was anyone’s voice is was 100% attuned to, it was Dean’s. He would probably understand what Dean was saying if he was speaking Chinese.

When you don’t talk, you listen.

And you understand.

Sam searches for what feels like hours, his eyes starting to ache from reading off the glare of the computer screen in the dark. His lips mouth the words as he reads them, before he remembers that he _has a voice_ and uses it, whispering the words like some sort of sacred secret between him and his laptop.

He doesn’t find _anything._ He searches for Jinn, even, and nothing comes up.

Finally, in the early hours of the morning, Sam loses to exhaustion and frustration, shoving the laptop away and slamming it shut, staring up at his ceiling, feeling defeated.

“I’m trying,” Sam whispered to Dean, knowing that his real brother couldn’t hear him, and never would. “I’m trying to get back to you and at the same time I don’t even know if I want to, let alone if I _can.”_

The real Dean would never know the sound of Sam’s voice.

Dean would never get to hear Sam say _I’m in love with you_ because there’s one thing getting an inappropriate hard on while wrestling, and it’s an entirely different thing to admit that _you’re in love with your brother._

Dean already knows, Sam’s never been good at hiding things from him.

“I wish you could tell me what to do.” Sam continued, pretending like Dean was just sitting there on the edge of the bed, watching him. God, he wished. “I’m so confused, none of this makes any sense, and yeah, it’s _good_ because Mom’s alive and dad doesn’t look like he wants to strangle me and you don’t hate my guts but there is some stupid part of me that wonders if maybe you can forgive me.” Sam stares at his lap, picks at his fingernails.

“You’ve forgiven some pretty horrific stuff, De.” He whispers. “It would be so selfish to ask, but I think that maybe you could do it. It might take years, but maybe you could learn to just ignore it, to just pretend like you don’t notice the way I look too long or I smile when you do even if there’s nothing funny, maybe you can look the other way when I lean in a little too close, maybe we can just…”

“I wish none of this happened.” Sam sighs very, very softly. “I wish we were still just two brothers who were closer than most and I wish that you would still be willing to die for me and I wish that I could smile at you without wondering if you saw through me, if maybe you knew my true feelings. I just…here….I can have that. A second chance.” Sam mumbles. “But it’ll never be the same, because now I know I was…taken?” Sam struggles to remember Dean’s words. “And you got me back, _of course you did,_ and I know it’s not fair of me to keep you wondering but I feel so young and stupid and _I don’t know what to do.”_

Sam sits there in pathetic silence for about 10 more minutes, grimacing at himself. What, was he waiting for some sort of reply?

“I don’t know what to do.” Sam repeats himself, sounding thoughtful and less broken. Which is somehow worse, because he doesn’t feel thoughtful. He doesn’t feel anything. “So I’m just…going to sleep.” He announces to no one.

He doesn’t bother to brush his teeth or shower, barely managing to shuck off his jeans before climbing into bed, burying his head in the pillow he wished smelled like Dean, falling asleep to the memory of that lake by the lavender farm, and the sound of Dean’s laughter as he splashed after him.

For the first time since Sam was dropped into this alternate universe, he dreams.

-

“Meredith is stopping to stay in a motel about two hours out. She said she’ll finish the drive tomorrow.” Megan informs them, after a glance at her phone.

Dean glares at her, and then shifts his glare to Kyle, and then lets his gaze fall back on Sam.

He doesn’t glare at Sam.

He watches Sam like he hung the moon especially for him.

Maybe it’s pathetic or maybe it’s poetic but either way Dean can’t make himself care.

“There isn’t anything we can do but wait for her, then.” Kyle yawns. “And I’m tired.”

Dean acts as if he’d never spoken. “Come back tomorrow, when this _dream walker_ is in town. I’m going to bed.”

Megan opens her mouth, and then shuts it, standing. “Come on, Kyle.” She says softly, and Dean hides a snicker at the way it sounds like she’s calling a puppy.

Kyle follows after her eagerly, probably glad to be away from Dean, and Dean locks the door behind them.

He turns back to Sam, and sinks down beside him in bed.

“Come back to me, kiddo.” Dean sighs, reclaiming one of Sam’s hands to clutch in his own. “I know it’s selfish. You might even hate me when you get back,” and wouldn’t that be easier? “But as long as you’re around, you can hate me all you want.”

-

Sam doesn’t know where he is.

There’s a road, and streetlights, and cars that zoom past him, but he doesn’t recognize it at all.

He glances around him, wrecking his brain in hopes of trying to recall something familiar, There was that tugging in the back of his mind, a small voice that informed him, _you’ve been here before._ But he couldn’t remember for what, or when, or where here even _was._

He turns around to glance behind him, and sees a motel. Nothing about the place looks terribly familiar, except maybe Sam’s walked or driven past it before.

He’s just about to give up hope and find the nearest person to ask for help, when he sees the shiny black impala parked outside one of the motel doors.

Dean was in there.

He was back. He was _back._

He breaks out into a huge smile, and breaks into a run towards the room the car is parked in front of hoping that Dean didn’t just park there at random, and he grabs the door handle—

His hand goes right through.

Sam snaps his hand back like he’d been burned, his eyes widen in fear. Was he dead?

He saw a woman getting out of her car in the parking lot just a short sidewalks distance away.

Sam approaches her, his feet carrying him quickly. He waves his arms in front of her face, snaps his fingers, puts a hand on her shoulder that….passes right through as if he was air.

Oh god, he was dead. He’d died somehow, and _now_ he was back like Dean wanted but he wasn’t _alive_ and oh fuck, Dean was going to be pissed. He was going to bring Sam back just to kill him again in punishment for dying.

He doesn’t want to be dead.

Maybe there was a time when he pondered the sort of escape that was made with a gun to the head or a rope around throat, or the right ( _wrong)_ amount of prescription pills from when Dean broke his ribs, but now? Now he just wanted to be alive.

He stumbles away from the girl and back towards the door. Maybe—okay, _definitely—_ if he was dead, he at least wanted to see Dean. It’s been seemingly forever (although truthfully only a few days) since he’s seen his Dean, his _real_ Dean, and he missed him.

Hesitantly, he pushes his hand against the door once more, and when it goes through, he takes a deep breath, and steps through it, surprised when he makes it, wiggling his fingers experimentally. Yep. All there.

Dean turns at the sound of him, which is strange, because he didn’t think that he made any noise, besides his breath. And anyways, he knows spirits aren’t invisible, but it felt somehow wrong for Dean to be able to see him, when really, Sam wasn’t even real.

Dean bolts to his feet, and Sam notices for the first time his own solid body beside Dean, looking asleep, or maybe dead, on the hotel bed.

Dean follows his gaze back to Sam’s sleeping form, (he’s going to say sleeping because it’s scary to think of himself as dead even if that might somehow be true) and then to Sam’s standing form.

Sam looks down at himself. He looks pretty solid, wearing the same outfit as the Sam lying motionless on the bed.

“Sam.” Dean says slowly, like the name _Sam_ is some foreign concept Dean isn’t sure he really trusts yet. He takes a step towards his little brother, and when Sam doesn’t make a move to run away or disappear, he takes another, until they’re just one foot apart.

Sam isn’t sure if he has a voice here, but he has to try. He owes that much, to try.

“Dean.” And the way he says the four letter name, the way it drips off his tongue like honey, it could be some sort of religious prayer. It could be some sort of halleluiah some sort of salvation. It could be something to save Sam from himself, just that one word.

Dean looks like he’s a part of some sort of slow motion disaster, you know the ones where you can slowly see the realization of the situation hit the victims faces? Dean slowly crumbles to the ground and Sam can’t stand there while Dean kneels before him so he crumbles too, and he smiles, even though he wants to cry, because he doesn’t understand any of what’s happening and his real self looks fucking _dead,_ but Dean is right there so close and he looks terrified but also happier than Sam has ever seen, and so he thinks that maybe, for one second, that yeah, everything is fucked up, but they’re going to be okay.

“I love you. I love you so much. I’m so sorry that I love you.” Sam rushes out, because it occurs to him that this blessing of time may not last forever and as much as he’d like to sit there and watch Dean, he also needed to tell him that he was _sorry._

Sam is sorry that his heart thumps unevenly in his chest whenever Dean smiles at him. He’s sorry that when he tries to shut his eyes and think of something that calms him, it’s always Dean’s face. He’s sorry that Dean is the first thing he thinks about in the morning and the last thing he thinks about before he goes to sleep. He’s sorry that he can’t ever picture spending the rest of his life with anyone else and he’s sorry for letting it show. He’s sorry for fucking up this entire god damn thing.

Dean looks confused, frowning deeply at him, and it’s not until then that Sam realized he’d said all that out loud.

_Oh no. He’s done it again._

Because every time the universe tries to do something good for Sam, he manages to fuck it up. If he’d just managed his words better, maybe Dean wouldn’t be looking at him like he’s some sort of dangerous lab experiment.

Sam has to go, he really has to go. He has to get out of there before Dean tells him to get lost, because he just can’t, he _can’t_ do it if Dean tells him to go and to never come back.

Sam shuts his eyes and when he opens them again, he’s in bed, staring at the ceiling of his room.

From down the hall, he hears his mother wishing him a goodnight.

Sam closes his eyes. Thinks about how bad he’s messed up once again.

And he doesn’t cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow so I never meant for this to be a dark fic when I started writing it but now it just seems like it kind of fits while the boys are apart for them to be feeling so helpless. 
> 
> Irrational codependency, isn't that what Sam and Dean /are/?
> 
> Anywhoo, the song I used for the title is Calls Me Home by Shannon LaBrie and I just thought it fit this chapter really well!!
> 
> If you have any suggestions for songs/quotes that remind you of wincest/this verse that you'd like me to use I'd love to hear your suggestions! My tumblr inbox is always open if you want to ask me stuff about this fic, or yell at me for making it so angsty ! heh.  
> My tumblr is: wincestplease
> 
> I promise disgusting amounts of fluff....soon. C:
> 
> Comments are so so appreciated, as well as your kudos! Thank you for the amazing feedback!
> 
> <3


	10. Loving You Is a Bloodsport

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I mean, what are you doing here?” Sam deadpans. “How did you get…” He makes a vague gesture to his own head. “In here?”
> 
> Or, the one where Sam and Dean finally get to see each other again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some mentions of suicide and very brief mention of uncomfortable living situations (Kyle's uncle) x read the tags (:

**"And the bitch of it all is that I'm running from**  
The desire of the people to whom I belong  
At the end of the day you can tell me I'm wrong  
'Cause you went to all of this trouble"

**- _All Time Low, Love Like War_**

 

Dean is determined not to fall asleep as he watched Sam, like he expected Sam to wake up suddenly or something, but it just….felt weird. There was anticipation in his stomach, like that fluttery feeling you get right before someone is going to kiss you, only this had lasted for hours and frankly it was both exciting and exhausting at the same time.

Dean can feel it. It’s in his bones, the hunters instinct John told him to _always_ trust. Something is going to happen.

And it has something to do with Sam.

He’s just hoping it’s something good. Like him waking up.

“Come back,” Dean sighs. He’s not sure how many times he’s said those two words since Sam took up residence in his own head. He lost count somewhere around 100. The phrase feels almost like a prayer by now.

And then, a gentle sound disrupts the utter silence that had befallen over the room.

Maybe it’s crazy, but he _swears_ he hears breathing—not just any breathing, _Sam’s_ breathing. The kind of breathing he has when he’s awake, verses the hushed even breaths he takes while he’s asleep.

Maybe it’s a little weird he knows Sam by his breath but it’s not so strange when pushing air in and out of his lungs is the only sound his kid will ever make—of course Dean knows him by it. Of course he does.

He whips around and bolts to his feet, because it’s coming from behind him, ( _which didn’t make sense, since Sam was in front of him, Sam was on the bed_ ) but Dean has never thought logically when it comes to his little brother, so when he hears Sam breathing, he turns.

And there.

_No. It can’t be._

Only, it is.

Sam is standing there, _his Sam,_ and he’s wearing the same clothing that the Sam on the bed is wearing, looking there and real and alive and confused as hell, which is exactly how Dean feels.

Because this doesn’t make any fucking sense.

Slowly, Dean turns behind him again.

Sam was still there, asleep.

He twists back to Sam. The, uh, _other_ Sam.

The awake Sam.

He was still there, staring, bewildered expression turning into something like sorrow and awe at the same time, and it breaks Dean’s heart, even if he doesn’t understand anything. Seeing Sam sad, makes him sad by default.

“Sam.” Dean drawls slowly, stepping towards his brother, half expecting him to disappear.

When he doesn’t, Dean takes another step forward, until just barely a foot of space separate them.

It feels wrong for anything at all to act as a barrier between them—all he wants is his brother cuddled up in his arms, cozy and sleep warm, trusting Dean completely to keep him safe as he sinks into slumber. He didn’t know what was going on, but he wanted. He craved.

Before all of this had happened, Dean had had so many of those nights. He’d taken them for granted, he’d taken for granted how good it felt just to hold on to Sam, just to know that his kid didn’t ever doubt if it was okay. They never had walls between them. They were always just, SamAndDean. Dean wants that again. He wants it so bad it _hurts._

And then Dean does the one thing he was sure Sam would never, ever do.

He opens his mouth, and says, “Dean.” And then his face pinches up like it’s the scariest thing he’s ever done in the entire world, like Sam just jumped from a building without a harness and was just hoping that maybe someone would catch him at the bottom—like he was taking a leap of blind faith by just saying his big brothers name.

And, god, Sam’s voice, it’s beautiful. It’s wonderful, it’s downright _angelic._

He wants to hear that voice say so much more.

He wants to hear Sam say how much he loves reading, wants him to read out loud every book he owns, every book he can get his hands on. Dean wants to hear Sam say _good morning_ and _goodnight_ and he wants to hear what Sam would sound like if Dean kissed him, he bet he’d make all these wonderful little noises, and Dean would just swallow them right up, would just drink them right down.

He wants to listen to Sam tell him about his day, he wants to listen to Sam rant about things, wants to hear Sam yell, wants to hear him whisper. He’d listen with rapt attention to anything Sam would have to say—even if it was nothing but a grocery list.

Sam, with his voice like melting chocolate adorned with the roughness of almonds, would make it sound downright pornographic.

Dean doesn’t even realize when his legs decide _hey, we quit!_ And they collapse from beneath him, buckling, and his knees hit the ground hard, and he just sits there, staring up at Sam like he’d just given Dean the best gift in the entire world.

And he _had._

Sam crumbles too, so they’re eyelevel.

Dean isn’t sure why that feels important, but it does.

And then something happens, and Sam is speaking again.

“I love you. I love you so much. I’m so sorry that I love you.” His kid rushes out, all in one breath. “I’m sorry that my heart thumps unevenly in my chest, whenever you smile at me. I’m sorry that when I try to shut my eyes and think of something calming, it’s always your face. I’m so sorry that you’re the first thing I think about in the morning and the last thing I think about before I go to sleep. I’m sorry that I can’t even picture spending the rest of his life with anyone else, and I’m sorry for letting it show.” Sam pauses, looks down at his lap. “I’m sorry for fucking up this entire god damn thing.”

Dean frowns, because yes—Sam’s voice is beautiful, and it’s everything he’d imagined it to be, but he didn’t like when Sam’s voice was saying all these tragically beautiful things. He wanted Sam to laugh, he wanted Sam to joke around with him.

Dean wants to open his mouth and say, _no, god, please, don’t apologize, I feel it too, everything you said, I feel it too but I’m not sorry about it, so please don’t be either._

But his lips, like his legs, no longer want to take commands from him, and he sits there like a gaping fish, wide eyes and wider mouth, a frown setting between his brows.

And then Dean can tell something is wrong because Sam has _that_ look on his face, the one that he always has right before he launches into an anxiety attack or when he wakes up from a nightmare, the face that tells Dean he’s scared and wants to either flee somewhere dark and safe or curl up in Dean’s lap and become invisible.

Before Dean can reach for him, or ask him what’s wrong, Sam is closing his eyes, and Dean watches his kid flicker like a holographic image, and then disappear completely.

Dean sits back on his heels, mourning the loss of Sammy’s perfect voice in his ears, feeling confused and alone, wondering where on earth Sam had gone, and how Dean was ever going to convince him to come back without fucking everything up, like he always does.

-

It’s around 5 o’clock in the morning when a knock comes from the door, and Dean goes to answer it. He’d been up for a few hours already—sleep wasn’t exactly something he was getting a lot of these days, but he knew all that would be fixed as soon as they got Sam back. Which, Dean was determined, was going to happen soon.

He pads barefoot to answer the door, smiles, when he sees her, and steps aside to let her in.

She’s….beautiful in a strange sort of way Dean has never seen before, not in the way that college girls are beautiful, not in the way the girls he used to chase are beautiful. Her brand of splendour is different. She’s definitely stunning, but in an exotic sort of way, almost _unearthly_ looking. Dean wants to stare, because her face is interesting, not all symmetrical, which made it even more intriguing.

Her dark skin was the color of coffee with a splash of milk, dark and sultry and smooth, unmarked, except for the tribal tattoo on her palm, which is done in white ink, in contrast to her midnight skin. She’s plump, all curves instead of edges, and she’s wearing all white like her tattoo, a flowing skirt and top that make her look sort of angelic.

Her hair is wild—dark, like her skin, in a fluffy arrangement of curls around her head, messy and untamed, like a flame.

But what Dean finds most interesting about her, is her eyes.

They’re different colors.

Her left eye is a honey-molasses kind of color—not quite golden, not exactly brown, while her right eye is the palest blue Dean has ever seen in an iris, though by the way she looks at him, he can tell she isn’t blind.

Megan and Kyle don’t know that she is here. She promised not to tell them. She turned off the GPS tracking in her phone, and swore that she knew spells using only white magic—good magic, Dean translates—to ward the doors so that none could enter, Megan and Kyle included.

She doesn’t greet him—that comes later. Now, she waits until he shuts the door, and then opens up her huge red purse, and produces a glass bowl, and a plastic baggy of what looked like green herbs of some sort, laced with dried flower petals from. She empties the contents of the baggy into the bowl, and sets it on the floor in front of the door, before grabbing a lighter from the same giant red purse, and lighting it all on fire.

The fire turns a brilliant purple-blue color, roaring up nearly as tall as Dean, before settling down, resuming natural fire color.

She nods to herself, looks fondly at the fire, like she’s proud, and then turns to Dean.

“Hello, boy.” She says calmly, nodding at him, face smooth an emotionless.

“Hi…” He narrows his eyes. “Look, I’ve got to ask—that fire isn’t going to burn the room down while I’m out, right?”

She rolls her eyes, patting him on the shoulder as she ushers him towards the bed. “Of course not.” She assures him, a chuckle in her voice.

Meredith tells him to lay down next to Sam.

“You’ve been around for a while, right?” Dean asks. He’s not nervous, exactly, more like just looking for some reassurance this will actually help bring his kid back to him.

“Yes.” Meredith replies. “I’ve been doing this since I was less than half your age. Never this scenario, of course, where a…Ghul…was involved, but dream walking? I’m an expert. You and your brother are in good hands, Dean.” She pauses. “Not to say this is an ideal situation. I’m not going to warn you of the dangers, because I’m fairly certain you don’t care, but--”

“I know the risks.” Dean lies. He hasn’t a clue what’ll happen when he gets thrown into Sam’s head. “And you’re right—I don’t care. So let’s go. I’m ready.”

Meredith sighs like he’s being a huge pain in her ass, and for the first time, turns to Sam.

“It must be some sort of shit fest trying to put up with his stubborn self every day, Sam.” She says sympathetically.

And then something beautiful happens.

The corner of Sam’s mouth twitches up into a smile, as if to say, _you have no idea._

And it’s not much, but Sam hasn’t moved in almost a week, and just that little bit of something is enough to make Dean sure of his plan—as if he wasn’t already.

“How’d you do that?” Dean asks, voice filled with wonder. “He hasn’t even twitched since the Ghul put him under.”

Meredith smiles knowingly. “I call myself a dream walker for a reason.”

“So couldn’t you just talk to him and tell him what he has to do to come back?” Dean asks, trying to understand the dynamics of her…abilities.

“You think Sam would believe a random voice in his head that he doesn’t recognize telling him he has to kill himself if he wants to come back?” She asks skeptically. “Especially when he’s a hunter? Yeah. Fat chance.”

Dean gets it, and he nods. “Fine, makes sense.”

“Are you ready?” Meredith asks, swirling a cup of oil with her finger. Dean hadn’t even noticed her take it out and prepare it.

“I...yeah. I’m ready to have my brother back.” He nods firmly. “Is there any rules, or I don’t know, survival guide for going into this?”

“Like I said, I’ve never done anything like this specific situation before, so I wouldn’t know.” She dismisses with a wave of her hand, seeming none too concerned, unlike before.

“Um, okay…”

And then Meredith is smearing some of the oil on his forehead, telling him to shut his eyes, and think of Sam.

Dean obliges, seeing his little brother running to him, jumping into his arms, saying his name in that honey sweet voice, over, and over and over….

-

_“Dean?!”_

“Dean, what the hell are you doing in my room?”

“Wake up.”

“Dean, wake up, right now.”

“….De?”

“Please. You’re scaring me. Wake up.”

His head hurts.

“…Dean. Come on, man.”

Someone is shaking him, and not gently, either.

“We’ve got school, Dean! We’re going to be late.”

School? Oh. School.

_School?_

Dean opens his eyes. Sam doesn’t like it when they’re late for school.

_Sam._

Sam was talking to him.

Dean gives him the most brilliant smile he owns in all his arsenal of smiles, and engulfs Sam into a hug, pulling the boy down onto the bed with him.

And he holds him.

He just holds him.

If nothing else, Dean is here with Sam, and he’s holding him.

That’s something.

That’s a lot.

It’s everything.

“Dean?” Sam sounds confused, _(Sam can sound confused now, he can do that, because he has a voice)_ but he’s not fighting it. He’s not pushing Dean away, and so Dean pulls him impossibly closer, and pushes his forehead into Sam’s neck and breathes. He breathes because he needs his kid like oxygen and for the first time since Sam left after they sparred Dean can truly fucking _breathe._

“Shh. Just please. Let me…let me have this.” And maybe he’s talking to himself, or maybe he really is talking to Sam—Dean couldn’t tell you, truthfully—but Sam seems satisified enough with this answer, because he’s melting like chocolate over an open fire into Dean’s arms, and then he’s holding Dean back with one of his arms _(he feels too thin—Sam, have you been eating?)_  and his free hand is grabbing at Dean’s wrist until he feels his kids slender fingers trace a careful heart on the delicate flesh of Dean’s inner wrist, and if something was broken in Dean before _(it was, because Sam was gone and he was definitely less than whole)_ it clicks back into place now.

Sam doesn’t say anything, and somehow, it works. Of course, Dean wants to hear his voice say anything, say everything, but silence works for the brothers they way it always has—it’s familiar, it’s safe.

Just Dean with his arms around his kid, just Sam saying everything without truly saying a word, just two broken boys fixing each other with their hands and their hearts and with no words hanging between them other than the ones their eyes scream even as they fill with tears.

It’s what they know.

It’s what they’ve always known.

-

Dean isn’t sure how long they stay like that—feels like days, but it’s probably only half an hour, until Sam finally sniffles something about being late for school, and Dean reaches up to wipe away the last of Sam’s tears with the pad of his thumb _(that’s routine)_ and smiling shakily.

He vaguely remembers the sound of someone calling them, warning that they’d be late…and with a jolt, Dean realizes that was Mary’s voice, and he was too wrapped up in Sam to even notice. His dead mother was within reach, and he’d been to lost in his kid to even notice.

He isn’t regretful.

But no one knocked, and no one interrupted otherwise.

“We’re okay, aren’t we?” Dean asks, because to Sam, this is just the Dean that the Ghul created, and between Sam and this Dean, nothing bad has happened, nothing to make their relationship strained, nothing to make it uneasy.

Sam is shaking his head, and he’s trying to pull away from Dean, and when Dean finally notices, he lets his weight off Sam, and watches as his kid crawl meekly away and sag against the head board, like just seeing Dean was exhausting.

It made Dean instantly suspicious. If Sam was careful around the Dean he assumed to belong to this _perfect world,_ that Dean must have done something to deserve it. Which makes Dean want to beat himself up.

Technically, it doesn’t make sense, but he’s got a clear idea of what he wants to do to anyone who hurts Sam, himself included, now.

“What…” Sam swallows wearily. “What are you doing here, Dean?”

And _holy fucking hell._

Sam knows.

He knows.

Dean wants to act like he doesn’t. “What do you mean, Sammy? It’s just me, old Dean-o. Now come on, let’s get ready for school.” He chokes. He knows this is it, Sam knows, and now Sam is going to tell him with his beautiful voice just how much Dean hurt him, and it’s going to kill, it’s going to fucking _burn_ but it will be everything he deserves with wiggle room, so he braces himself to just take it like he knows he must.

“I mean, _what are you doing here?”_ Sam deadpans. “How did you get…” He makes a vague gesture to his own head. “In here?”

Dean’s mouth is dry. “Dream walker.” He whispers. Because there is no point in lying—He’ll need Sam to believe him if he wants him to wake himself up.

Dean tries not to think about _how_ Sam has to wake himself up.

“I’m sorry.” Sam sighs, brushing a hand back through his hair.

Something I n Dean’s chest hurts and he realizes it’s because that gesture was very grown up, and he doesn’t want Sam to grow up, he wants his baby boy to stay as innocent as he used to be with his huge hazel eyes and his fat little feet padding down Bobby’s hallway and into his arms to give him a dimpled smile, and he wants Sam to be safe and he wants Sam to wake up and he just wants, wants, _wants,_ and he’s a greedy fuck with all that he wants for Sam but he can’t help it. He can’t _help it._

“For?” Because Dean should be apologizing, not Sam. He didn’t understand what his kid had to be sorry about.

“For…” Sam pauses, and then huffs violently like he’s angry at himself for not being able to find the right way to phrase the sentence. “For ruining everything between us. For…leaving the motel. For getting taken, and putting you through all this. And I’m sorry for b-being in love with y-you.” Sam stutters out the last part, and then a beautiful red blush creeps up over his cheeks and the tips of his ears.

Dean reaches for him.

Sam doesn’t reach back, but he doesn’t fight it when Dean’s arms close around him, pulling Sam onto his lap.

Now might be the perfect time to tell Sam _it’s okay, it’s okay, I’m in love with you too, I am, and it’s okay._

Dean lets there be silence for a little while longer, before sighing softly. “You know you need to wake up, right?”

Sam goes stiff. “I know.”

Dean nods in agreement. Sam knows.

“…you don’t hate me, right?” Sam asks, voice small and vulnerable.

Dean pulls back to look him in the face, and Sam seems genuinely worried that Dean may just hate him, might just never want to look at him again.

The idea seems absurd. Dean closed his eyes for a moment and tried, really tried, to imagine a world where he hated  his baby brother, and he just couldn’t do it. There was nothing that could ever make Dean hate him.

“No.” Dean says fiercely, putting all his heart into the words so Sam would hear and  know that it was true. “I don’t. I never could, even if I wanted to.”

“But I’m--”

Dean cuts him off right there by cupping the back of Sam’s head and pushing him into Dean’s chest again. “Shh.” Dean murmurs, his hand carding through Sam’s thick locks. “It’s okay, baby boy. We’ll figure it out. We’re going to get you to wake up, and then we’re going to part with some friends, and we don’t have to go back to dad. Not ever. It can just be you and me and the baby, and the road. Just like we always dreamed, huh?”

“I can’t make you leave dad,” Sam objects, curling closer to Dean, their chests pressed together, Sam’s legs wrapped around Dean’s torso, his fists clinging to the fabric of Dean’s t shirt.

Dean strokes through Sam’s hair. He’s read Sam’s journal, he knows how Sam feels about Dean leaving John. But it’s not good for Sam to be around someone who is constantly tearing him down, and it’s not good for Dean to see his kid so broken.

“We’ll both be happier away from dad,” Dean argues. “Even if it’s only for a little while. I think we should try it, just us, for a while.”

Sam considers this for a few minutes. “You wouldn’t mind leaving dad? For me?”

Dean presses a kiss to the top of Sam’s head, heart aching at how familiar this all is, at how much he’d missed this easy closeness in the time that Sam was under.

“I’d do anything for you.” Dean whispers. “You’ve got to know that by now.”

He can feel Sam’s smile, albeit tiny, against his chest, and that’s rewarding. That’s victory.

“I know.” Sam whispers. “I’d do anything for you, too.”

Dean rests his chin on Sam’s head. “I know you would, Sammy. I know you would.”

“…What did you mean, part with some friends?” Sam questions.

Of course, Sam would pick up on that. Sam is a genius. Sam has always been intuitive; Dean can never slip anything by him. Sharp as a razor, his kid is. Dean is proud.

“Well, I was a little in over my head trying to find you.” Dean admitted. “I was worried. Panicked, more like it. Not thinking straight, just knew that I wanted to find you— _needed,_ to find you, is more like it—and that I couldn’t do it alone.”

Sam hugs him tighter, and Dean tells his story—about contacting Megan, about who Megan is and why she could help. He tells Sam about going to his hotel room and seeing all the blood. Tells Sam he’s proud of him for putting up a fight.

“I don’t remember being taken.” Sam admits quietly. “I wish I did. Feels weird to know something happened, something drastic, and not being able to recall what it was.”

“It’s probably horrific,” Dean croaks. “I think it’s better if you don’t remember.”

Sam doesn’t answer, but he’s always been stubborn.

Dean continues to tell him about how he called Bobby, how Megan told him that Sam was a prime victim for the thing, and Dean’s attempts at rescue got more and more desperate. Dean tells Sam about how Megan explained it was a Ghul, and that they later devised a plan to kill it.

He tells Sam that Lacy and Kate, who’d been taken before Sam, were both dead.

Sam screws up his face after that, and Dean wants to ask him why he’s so torn up about two girls he’d never met, before he remembers that Kyle said he was Sam’s friend in the dream. Maybe Sam had spoken to Lacy and Kate before the Ghul had killed him.

He tells Sam that, “You and Kyle were the only ones alive in the warehouse.”

Sam seems relieved about this. “Kyle is alive?”

Dean can’t help his selfish jealousy. “Yeah,” He murmurs. “He’s staying with Megan. I think…I think she might adopt him.” Dean had never reflected on it before, but it made sense now that he thought about it. Kyle’s home situation was unstable at best, he was informed about his Uncle blamed him for the death of his parents….and Megan seemed to have taken to him, and he to her, instantly.

“That’s good.” Sam whispers. “I hope he’s happy.”

Dean ends off with Meredith, and how she came into the picture, and leaves out how technically Dean is not supposed to be inside Sam’s head right now, because he doesn’t think Sam will like hearing that very much.

He also doesn’t tell Sam just yet how he’s supposed to wake himself up.

“I missed a lot.” Sam mumbles. He sounds sad.

“Which is why you need to come back, join the waking world once again,” Dean chuckles, his hand smoothing little circles over Sam’s back. “Think you can do that for me, Sammy? Think you can wake yourself up?”

Sam mewls something incoherent and nuzzles his face against Dean’s neck, like he plans to make home there and never move. “I think so,” Sam agrees, his voice muffled by Dean’s t shirt. “Just tell me how.”

-

“What do you mean, _you’re busy?”_ Megan seethes through the phone, clutching it tightly.

Kyle, who previously had been sprawled out on the motel’s couch, sits up to attention, eyes wide and afraid, but he knows better than to ask what is wrong. He folds his hands in his lap, and he waits.

“I mean,” Meredith chimes. “I’m busy.”

“You said you’d be available.” Megan objects, her voice ice cold, her eyes narrowed into slits. She hated talking on the phone, because it was impossible for her to intimidate someone by her voice alone, which was high and very feminine.

“Well. I was available, and now I’m not. I’m with a client.”

“A client.” She spits. “We had a deal.”

“Nothing is permanent, child.”

It’s frustrating how calm she seems. Megan wants to be wherever she is, grab the dream walker by the shoulders, and shake her, _hard,_ until she shows some sort of reaction other than the mellow peace-and-love vibe she had now.

“There’s a 15 year old boy who needs to come home.” Megan’s voice breaks, her anger fading into something fragile. She didn’t want to see the look on Dean’s face when she broke it to him that it would be even longer until Meredith could come and bring Sam back.

“I know.” She replies.

“And you don’t care?”

Meredith seems to pause as if in consideration. “I care enough to help.”

Before Megan has the time to think about what the hell that means, the line disconnects. Meredith hung up.

She turns to Kyle.

“She’s with somebody else.” She says carefully. “So it might be a while longer before she’ll be able to help Sam.”

Kyle frowns at that, but doesn’t push or otherwise make any sound of recognition.

Megan runs a hand back through her hair, just barely refraining from a growl. Sam was important, he deserved to be saved. He needed to be saved.

Because saving Sam would also in turn, save Dean.

-

Megan calls.

She calls Dean maybe 20 times, but it goes right to voicemail without ringing.

-

Meredith sees the missed call notifications show themselves on Dean’s phone from where it’s placed haphazardly on the dresser beside the bed, as she sighs worriedly, her hands paused over Dean’s forehead.

She was hoping feverishly that this Megan would not cause problems.

A physic always trusts her gut feelings—the same way a hunter does, and she _knows_ that it was Dean who was meant to save Sam, not this time, specifically, but every time, every single time.

-

If Dean hadn’t answered that many times, something was up. Megan was worried.

When she’d driven over to his motel and knocked on the door, no one answered, and when she tried to open it, it wouldn’t budge. Even when she’d attempted to kick it down, and every time she touched it, she got a shock, and the little jolts of electricity got stronger the more she persisted.

Now, back at the motel, Megan was panicking and running out of options.

She’d put two and two together.

Dean had wanted to wake Sam up himself.

Meredith was with another client. Her GPS tracking on her phone was off.

Dean’s motel door had acted like it was magically warded—which, she guessed, it was, thanks to Meredith.

She had only a few options left, some, far worse than others.

She settles for firstly, calling her husband.

“Jacob,”

“Meggie? You okay?” Her husband’s voice is rough and deep the same it’s always been, and it made Megan smile. “How’s that boy coming ‘long?” His thick Texas accent went long ways into soothing her, and her steely grip on the phone loosened into something more relaxed.

“Not good, Jake.” She shakes her head, listening to the water run as Kyle takes a shower to keep her sane. “His brother is going crazy.” Crazy enough to send himself into Sam’s head without any idea of how it’d really affect him.

“S’gotta be hard on him, young as he is. I mean, you said their father wasn’t exactly in the picture?”

“That’s right,” She agrees in a whisper. “They only have each other. If Sam doesn’t come back, Dean is pretty much all alone.”

Jacob clucks his tongue in shock. “What kind of daddy bails out on his boys at a time like this?”

“John Winchester, apparently.”

There’s a silence at the other end.

“Jake?” She asks, voice small. She lets herself be vulnerable around her husband, in front of him, because she knows that he knows how strong she really can be and never underestimates her.

“You said Winchester?”  He sounds hesitant.

“Yes, why?” She realizes that never before had she mentioned their last name. “Does that mean anything to you?”

“John Winchester is one of the most well known hunters to ever exist in the past 14 years.” Jacob says sternly. “I should have known when you told me ‘bout Sam and Dean. I mean…John, he’s…” Jake sighs. “He’s done some pretty ruthless things in the name of killin’ a big bad. He and his boys are pretty famous. Sam’s shy, doesn’t talk. Dean’s a good hunter, too. Grew up strong.”

 _Sam’s shy?_ Is that what they’ve told the public, keeping Sam’s muteness a sacred secret?

She only barely pauses before answering. “This isn’t why I called.”

“Why did you, then? You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. I need some help.”

“Meggie, you know I’d love to, but my leg is still broken and I can’t walk worth a damn with this huge cast they’ve got me in.”

“Not from you. Well, not physical help, anyway. The Ghul is dead, all the heavy lifting is done.” She says quickly, fingering a piece of her hair.

“Then why’re you calling me?”

“You’ve got roadhouse connections.” Everyone in the hunter community knew of the roadhouse, the bar where hunters meet up and devise plans, bounce ideas off each other, talk strategy, gossip, and drown their sorrows over copious amounts of alcohol.

“And?” He sounds worried, as he often was, when Megan tried planning things. Her ideas were often very organized, and cunning, with many steps that had to be executed perfectly in order for it to work.

“I need someone who knows a lot about a lot.” She murmurs. A know it all. A genius. “Someone who can tell me about dream walking.”

There’s a slight hesitation. “Bobby Singer knows a little about a lot.” He offers. Megan can hear him flicking through pages. Probably his hunting journal, where he has contacts stored and other useful information. “I’ll text you the number. He might be able to help, god knows he’s helped me more than once.”

She huffed, assuming he’d have to go into the roadhouse to find someone, though, apparently not.

“Okay,” She mumbles. “Thank you. I love you.”

“I love you too, Meggie.” His warm voice drawls, and then he hangs up, and she sighs.

Seconds later, a number is texted to her just as she hears the water from the shower shut off. She adds it to her contacts and makes a mental note to call this Bobby Singer sometime after she gets Kyle lunch.

The kid was growing on her.

-

Dean twitched nervously. “It’s not pretty.”

Sam sighed quietly. “When is it ever pretty for us, De? Just tell me.”

 _I can’t,_ Dean wanted to say. _I can’t tell you because I don’t want you to have to do it but I need you to wake up._

He takes a deep breath.

Shuts his eyes because he can’t look at Sam, he can’t look at all his kids innocence and know that in order for Sam to wake up he had to ruin the obliviousness in Sammy’s beautiful hazel eyes.

“I wish it could be different,” Dean hedges, his eyes still shut tightly. “But it can’t. And…and to wake up, you have to kill yourself.”

There’s a strange hiccupping sound he’s never heard before, and in confusion, Dean opens his eyes, assuming his kid to be crying in explanation for the sound.

But he isn’t crying.

Sam’s _laughing_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awesome. Another chapter done, and I have so many places i want to take this fic, there is no sign of it ending anytime soon.  
> The feedback I've been getting from this is absolutely amazing. I NEVER expected it to get such positive feedback, and you guys are perfect. Your comments/kudos make my day.  
> So thank you so much for reading!  
> As always, my tumblr is wincestplease and I'd love it if you dropped by to say hi or ask about this verse, or even yelled at me if thats what you want! ;)  
> Until next time, loves! xxoxo


	11. Do I Have To Go To Make You Love Me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean discovers something about Sam that changes everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so this chapter was like a week later than it was supposed to be, but it's here now!

**"What you want most you push away from you.You want more than you care to admit."**

**-Tarjei Vesaas**

 

-

Bobby wasn’t doing much of anything these days besides answering phones and looking things up for hunters working jobs, and maybe it was safer than being on the front lines, but it made him feel old and a little helpless.  At least John hadn’t called in days, and he for that Bobby was pretty thankful for.

He loved John’s boys to death, but John himself? He could hardly stand the guy. Just…everything he did or said made Bobby want to shoot him with a buck of rock salt.

Multiple times.

 In the face.

Nothing significant had happened in days with the hunters he’d been talking to—a few poltergeists there, a wendigo here, some scattered witches…nothing out of the ordinary for the supernatural.  It was a lull of sorts in the hunting community, and many were taking advantage of that, spending time with family they so rarely get to see because of their lifestyle, or doing other leisurely things.

And _that’s_ when his phone rings.

Nothing too special about that—Bobby’s phone rings multiple times a day from many different hunters asking about things Bobby was known for knowing. What was different about it, was what the voice on the other end had to say.

He answers, and presses the phone to his ear.

“Yep.” He says gruffly.

“Bobby Singer?” The voice is female.

“That’s me,” He replied, settling back in his chair and tapping his fingers against his worn wooden desk. “What can I do you for, kid?” The woman he was talking to could be older than him for all he knows (though she sounds fairly young and even a little panicked) but to Bobby, everyone was a kid. In his books, he was ancient.

“This is Megan Petersen.” The voice tells him. She sounds a little breathless, the pa. “You may know my husband, Jacob?”

He squints out the window at the rust buckets he calls cars, and nods to himself as a blonde smiling face appears in his memory. Megan’s husband, though Bobby had probably known him even before they got married. “Yeah, I know Jake.” He nods. Jake Petersen had called in a few times asking Bobby to be his FBI backup, or for information, or just to talk, because although Bobby ain’t no doctor Phil, he’s a good listener. Sometimes that’s all hunters need. They do see some pretty unforgettable stuff—it’s bound to wear a guy down. “He in any trouble?”

“No, no, nothing like that, thank goodness. This call isn’t about him.” She assures him, though she’s still clearly worried. “It’s just…I need some help.”

“People who call me normally do,” Bobby sighs, cradling the phone between his shoulder and ear to free his hands to rearrange some paper to a more organized pile of clutter, freeing up some space. “What is it?”

“What can you tell me about dream walking?” She hedges, sounding almost hesitant to talk to him about it. Which is stupid, because _she_ called _him._

Bobby thinks about this for a moment. “Dream walking, huh? Well, what do you want to know?” His knowledge wasn’t vast, but he knew enough about it that he might be able to provide some answers for Megan. He knew of hunters who had family or friends in comas, and wanted to visit their head to urge their loved ones to wake up, or just to say goodbye if it was too late.

“Well, I’ve got a pretty unique situation on my hands…” She sighs then, sounding very tired, and old,  like she’d seen a lot and done a lot and now it was all weighing down on her.

“I can only help if you explain it to me,” He reminds gently, pulling out a pen and a piece of paper, tapping the pen against the desk as he waits. He never was good with details, so writing stuff down helps.

“Um. So, this is kind of a long story. I got a call about a week and a half ago from this kid who was very worried about a case he was working—which I thought it was weird he was working a case all by himself I mean he’s still _only 19_ —but he was worried because his little brother was a prime victim for this particular…thing….and I’d been taken by it before, so the kid thought I could help.” Bobby doesn’t blame her for keeping names out of this, many hunters are superstitious about that sort of thing and keep stuff private like names hush hush. He doesn’t take offense, but this story is starting to sound very familiar, and he’s already dreading where this is going. “Long story short, the one who called me ended up getting the one he was worried about taken, but we got it back and killed the thing.”

“I see.” Bobby nods to himself, scribbling down on the paper. “So, what, exactly, is the problem?” If Megan was talking about who he was nearly sure she was talking about, he _really_ didn’t want to know.

“Only now, the victim is in a coma like state, where in his head he’s living an entirely different life, a better one, with all the people he loves from this life, just….I don’t know, new and improved, I guess.” She sounds helpless. Bobby wants to do something for her, but he’s really not understanding what she’s asking from him. “So the kid’s brother, um, decided to call the dream walker, and sent himself into his little brothers head. Only, there’s already a version of him in the victim’s head, and I’m not sure what is going to happen to him while he’s in there.” She finishes.

_Coma like state._

_In his head he’s living an entirely different life._

Dean had called him nearly a month ago now, describing a case with a Ghul.

“Sam and Dean Winchester?” Bobby chokes, his hands starting to shake. “Please tell me my boys are okay.” Please, _please._

“You know the Winchester boys?” Megan gasps. She then seems to catch on to the second part of what Bobby said, and she huffs out her breath. “Um, I _hope_ they’re okay. Dean sent himself into Sam’s head without even thinking about the consequences.”

“They’ve always been like that. Dean takes care of Sam.” _because John never has, and someone had to, and Sam has always turned to Dean and Dean has always accepted him like no one else ever has._ “They’ve been closer than any siblings—any two people—I’ve ever seen.”

“It’s remarkable.” Megan says in awe, getting blinded for a moment, as many who first meet the boys often do, by their dedication to one another. It really was amazing, love like that comes once in a lifetime.

“It’s going to get them both killed.” Bobby frets, despite the fact Megan assured him they were okay. She was calling for a reason, and she needed help. “I’ll have to do some research for you, Megan, I’ve never dealt with anything like this before, but I’m sure I’ll be able to dig up something.” Especially if it was to help out his boys.

“But, I mean, chances that Dean’ll be okay are high, right? I’ve heard about the hunters instinct, apparently its some pretty powerful stuff. Dean wouldn’t do this if he thought he was going to get hurt, right?” She’s looking for some reassurance, Bobby can tell, but he can’t give it to her knowing it’s a lie.

He stares up at the ceiling. There’s still a stain from when Dean tried to run Sam a bath when he was sick and fell asleep in bed beside his 3 year old little brother, and the water overflowed everywhere. Bobby likes that stain. It reminds him of safety, and the days were he was sure that his boys would grow up safe. “When it comes to Sam, Dean doesn’t care _what_ happens to him. They’ve never thought rationally when it’s about each other.”

“Yeah, I’m sort of getting that feeling,” Megan sounds troubled.

Briefly, Bobby wonders what she’d witnessed to make her sound so sure of herself besides Dean jumping into the unknown depths of Sam’s genius mind.

Then again, he’s also pretty sure that anyone in Sam and Dean’s presence for more than an hour would see the obvious devotion they have for each other.

-          

He couldn’t believe it.

Dean sits there in shock for a full minute before he decides he should probably ask _why_ Sam is laughing. It’s a beautiful sound, but it’s not _right._ Something about the choked tone to the fits of laughter tipped Dean off, and this sound might be new, he may have never heard this before, doesn’t really _know_ it. But he knows Sam, and he knows when he’s thinking something besides the obvious. Dean knows something isn’t right.

“Sam?” Dean prods, eye brows arched. That definitely wasn’t the reaction he’d been expecting. “Um?” He didn’t understand.

Sam glances up at him, pulling back, his full dimples disappearing as he works to make his smile fade, and although his kid is laughing, Dean can see that he isn’t _happy._

Sam has never spoke, so Dean had had to learn his baby brother by his eyes and his lips and his gestures, so he _knows_ that while Sam’s mouth is laughing, his eyes are wide and a little sad. Sad enough that Dean knows something is wrong.

“It’s just,” Sam shrugs, his smile turning small and a little bitter. “You make it sound like some sort of big deal. Like, _Sammy, you’re going to have to kill yourself.”_ Sam’s voice deepens, and Dean is surprised at how well Sam can actually imitate his voice.

Then again, when you spend so much time listening, it only makes sense that he’d know all the ways Dean’s voice drops and lifts and deepens.

“It _is_ a big fucking deal, Sam!” Dean shouts, suddenly furious. “What the hell?”

“It’s not like I’ve never thought about it before. Doing it.” Sam snaps back, and then as if he realizes what he’d just said, his cheeks turning red.

And yeah, Dean can tell that it probably feels good, that loss of control, to get angry at someone and be able to verbalize your frustration. Sam’s never had that before. It doesn’t mean Dean is glad that Sam is exploding at _him._

“Yeah, I’m aware.” Dean says bitterly, shuddering at the memory of Sam’s words. “I read it.”

“ _It?_ ” Sam’s eyes flash with betrayal, and he shoves Dean away roughly, full palms flat on his chest before scrambling up to his feet, running his hands back through his hair, grabbing fistfuls of it like he wants to tear it out, pacing the room in fast strides. If Dean though Sam was mad before, he hadn’t been prepared for this. “You _read my journal?”_

Dean clenches his teeth together, scrambling for an explanation that wouldn’t be a lie. He didn’t want to ever lie to Sam. “I missed you. I just…I didn’t mean to. I read the first entry, and then I felt like I hardly knew you, so I just…” It’s the truth.

“You kept reading.” Sam’s voice breaks and he slams his hands against the wall. Dean catches the shimmer of tears against Sam’s cheeks. He wants to pull Sam away from the wall, hold him close again, because it felt like it’d been ages since Sam had held him back, since Sam hadn’t been a limp body, too accepting to every touch. Dean lived for that moment of resistance right before Sam melted into him, Dean loved how the stiffness all just whooshed out of Sam the minute he touched him. He’d missed that since the Ghul had put him under. “Are you _kidding_ me right now? What, am I not allowed to have some privacy, Dean? Do you _have_ to know everything about my life? Every _little_ detail?” 

“Yes!” Dean cries. “Yes, Sam, of course I do!” Isn’t it obvious? Isn’t that how they’ve always been?

“No, you _don’t,”_ Sam sobs, sliding his back against the wall and slithering to the floor in a pathetic heap of coltish limbs and defeated gasps. “You don’t.” He repeats. “Because now you know everything. And I should be allowed to keep to myself some things that I don’t want you to know. Fuck, Dean. I  can’t fucking believe you.”

Dean winced. “Sam, you can’t honestly be mad--”

“I _am.”_ Sam snaps. “I’m so fucking mad right now it’s not even _funny.”_

“It’s just me, kid. It’s not like I’m going to tell anyone.” He offers in a small voice, because he really isn’t sure what else he’s supposed to say.

“You think _that’s_ what I’m worried about?” Sam scoffs, squeezing his eyes shut tightly as more tears fall. “Some things you don’t have to know. You just…don’t have to know.” Something about the way Sam said it made it sound more like, _you shouldn’t know._ Or, _I don’t want you to know._

“We’ve never kept secrets.” Dean objects weakly, feeling small compared to the rage that was Sam Winchester, even though now, Sam looked small, too, Dean knew that his hazel eyes contained a wildfire just waiting to be provoked. But his kid was also hurt, and Dean was the one that had done that hurting, but he knew that if he reached out to Sam now, he’d only pull back and get angrier.

“Well sorry if I don’t feel like being a fucking open book for you anymore,” Sam spits, staring out the window and refusing to look at Dean. “How far did you read?”

“Sammy, I--”

“ _How far?”_

Dean sighs. “Almost to the end.”

Sam lets out a little broken gasp and grabs a book off the shelf beside him, hurling it at Dean’s head. Dean ducks easily, but the fact that Sam wanted it to hit him hurt enough. Probably more than a book would.

“So you know?!” Sam screams. “You fucking _know_ and I can’t _fucking believe you_! You had _no right_ to do that, Dean! No fucking right!”

Sam made himself vulnerable on those pages. Dean shouldn’t see. Shouldn’t see. Wasn’t supposed to.

Because maybe Sam told him before when they met briefly but Sam talked about it in detail in that fucking journal and he spilled himself onto those pages _and he did not give his consent for Dean or anyone to see what he wrote._ He never meant those words for anyone else’s eyes, even eyes he trusted with his life. He wasn’t just an open book for Dean or anyone for that matter. He didn’t deserve to have his privacy violated that way.

“Sam, _please,_ just listen to me, you have to understand, I feel the s--”

“Get out!” Sam shouts, his voice high and desperate, as he grabs more books to through. “Get out of my fucking head!” He’s sobbing pathetically, whipping books and his alarm clock and his lamp, (which Dean catches and sets back down patiently, because if the glass broke he didn’t want any of it to hit Sam) and he’s screaming all these awful things until he finally looks Dean right in the eye, and sobs, “ _I want you to get the hell out of my head right now.”_

-

Dean wakes up with a gasp, bolting into a sitting position.

This isn’t Sam’s room. These walls are familiar but this _isn’t Sam’s room._

This is the hotel room he’d been staying in.

Sam’s sleeping form was beside him, tears staining his cheeks, though otherwise, he didn’t move. Just like he hadn’t moved for a week. Just like he may never move again.

Meredith looks at him with her eyebrows drawn high in worry and doesn’t say a damn thing.

-

Dean asks Meredith, “What the hell happened?”

But he already knows.

-

Dean wasn’t supposed to see.

Dean wasn’t supposed to know how much Sam loved him. Sure, he’d fessed up when they’d somehow met earlier, but _Dean wasn’t supposed to know much Sam loved him._ He wasn’t supposed to see just how much, or how long, or all the things Sam thinks about. Dean, before, could have brushed it off as a crush or something he would eventually grow out of, it was something that maybe, just maybe, they could work around, something they could get past.

But now, it was too much. Dean knew the extent of Sam’s feelings, now he really, _truly_ knew how fucked up he really is.

Sam, without filter, poured himself into those pages. That is his soul Dean was carelessly reading. And maybe Dean knows it, maybe he doesn’t, but now Sam feels naked and vulnerable, afraid and bared for Dean to see.

Half the stuff Sam wrote about was _Dean._

And now Dean knows. Everything. Every wish Sam made on passing cars and wrote in the pages, every time Sam decided that Dean was the only person he’ll ever fall in love with… everything, all of it.

Sam grabs his pillow and screams into it, shamelessly.

-

“He kicked you out of his head.” Meredith replies. “He didn’t want you there anymore. It’s not common, but not unheard of.”

_Didn’t want you anymore._

-

An hour, or maybe two, later, John calls Sam’s cellphone, and he forces his voice to be normal.

“Hey, Sammy,” He says warmly. John’s voice sounds weird when it’s trying to be affectionate. He’s never had that tone directed at him before. “I didn’t want to wake you up this morning, you didn’t come down when your mother called you, so we just decided to let you sleep. I figured you weren’t feeling well again.”

“Yeah,” Sam grits. Maybe it’s not such a lie. His stomach _is_ in knots, but it’s not from any kind of flu. No. This disease was called heartbreak and it hurt worse than any stomach bug or illness Sam had ever contracted. “I was asleep. Just woke up a few hours ago, actually.”

“Oh, Sammy,” He frets. Again, a strange tone. John sounded… _worried_. “I’m so sorry. It’s not like you to get sick like this. I’ll bring you home something to help you feel better, okay?”

“Yeah, sure,” he croaks. His father was lying—Sam gets sick a lot. At least, in the real world he always did. “Thanks, dad Have a good day at work.”

“I will, kiddo. Feel better soon. I love you.”

“Love you.” Sam breathes. And then he hangs up, because he feels numb from attention and raw from crying and sick from betrayal and because what else he supposed to do?

-

“You have to send me back,” Dean argues. “ _Please._ I can’t just leave him like that.”

“If he wants you out, you’re not getting back in.” Meredith answers briskly. “Give him some time to cool down, Dean. From what you’ve told me, you’ve violated his privacy. That’s not something people get over easily.”

“But we’re never private from each other.” Dean objects stupidly.

Meredith gives him a pitying glare he despises.

-

Bobby researches, like he promised.

It doesn’t take nearly as long as he thought he would—a book he’d had collecting dust for some time now provided some pretty helpful insight on the whole dream walking thing without dream root, but instead, a special type of physic, sometimes referred to as a Walker, other times just a dream walker, or physic in a general sense.

From what Bobby’s research told him, as long as either of the Dean’s don’t _meet_ up, or communicate or whatever, the risk of something happening was extremely low. However, if they _did_ meet up…things wouldn’t be pretty, Bobby got that much from what he’d managed to roughly translate from the Latin his book had been written in.

Megan had called back finally spilling the details about the Ghul and all that once she found out that Bobby knew Sam and Dean ( _knew._ Ha, more like _raised_ ) and now he felt pretty confident that if Dean could get Sam to…do what was needed…to wake up, then everything should work out.

It was a strange feeling, having hope that you think everything just might turn out okay. Bobby, as all hunters are, is attuned to expecting nothing short of the worst. Bracing for it. He’d been dreading reading something like _once one enters into anothers false reality, there is no escape_ or something equally as awful.

But for once, the road ahead seemed bright. Maybe, _just maybe,_ things would work out okay.

“Keep your damn head thinkin’ straight,” Bobby scolds Dean in a breathy tone as he put his whiskey away ( _he had to have it just in case he read something awful, just in case he found out that he was going to lose both his boys_ ) and adjusts his ball cap. “Don’t be a damn idjit for once and maybe save the kid, huh?”

If Dean was there standing in front of him, he’d nod and a give a sharp, _yessir,_ because that’s how he talks to John, more like John’s a drill sergeant than a father, but then Bobby would pull Dean in for a hug and tell him that he’s proud of all he’s done and that he raised Sam to be a good kid. The best. And Dean sagged into his arms, like he was relieved to have some authority figure recognize him in a positive light. Broke Bobby’s heart every time that happened.

He used to even consider the idea of fighting John with child services to get the boys under his own wing, to take care of them like they deserve, but he figures having bad blood with John Winchester could be a life or death situation, and he’d be no good to Sam and Dean bleeding to death with sixteen bullet holes in his chest.

So whenever they came over, Bobby took care of them best he could, made sure to let them know that he’s only ever a phone call away, for anything—help on a hunt, questions about homework, or just someone to vent to when things got tough. Or for Sam, an email, because it’s a little hard to vent to somebody over the phone when you can’t speak. But he took care of those boys. He did.

Of course, Dean didn’t exactly _let_ Bobby take care of Sam.

Dean didn’t really let _anyone_ take of Sam, because to him, that was _his_ job, and no one else could do it better, ( _which, okay, yeah, is probably true_ ) and it had always been Dean’s mentality that Sam was his to take care of. Sam was just…his. His kid. Bobby had heard Dean call Sam that more than once, even when Dean was just a scrawny little kid with huge green eyes and a face dotted with freckles. Dean was barely 3 or 4 when he started calling Sam his kid, and the title just fit to the way he treated Sam.

Bobby remembers Dean bounding home from school with a 3 and a half year old Sammy in tow, and he’d run right up to Bobby’s door and jumped inside, his face splitting into a grin.

_“You should see what Sammy got on his report card—straight A’s across the board! Most people think my kid can’t do anything because he can’t talk, but Sammy ‘s really smart, Bobby. Like, smarter than…the smartest!_

Bobby had agreed, because maybe all Sam was doing at that age was learning the alphabet and counting, but he’d been able to do it without any difficulty, and Dean just seemed so _proud,_ Bobby couldn’t do anything put pull them both in for a hug.

Bobby recalls a frantic 7 year old Dean tugging on the hem of his shirt to get his attention one Saturday morning.

 _“Bobby, have you seen my kid? He was_ just _here watching cartoons. I’ve checked all around, I don’t know where he went.”_

Bobby reassured Dean that Sammy had just gone to the bathroom and Dean seemed so relieved it was almost funny to watch that kind of concern drift off such a tiny face. Dean was just a kid, yet he had the responsibility of caring for Sam on his shoulders.

 Though, he never once acted like it was a burden.

10 year old Dean had sunk into Bobby’s front door, carrying a crying Sam, wrapped around him like a sloth to a tree. Bobby offered to take him so Dean could go get started on any school work he might have or just to give him a break (dealing with upset children can be quite the chore) but Dean refused to let Sam go and Sam had no intentions of going anywhere, so Dean just stroked his back and rocked him until 6 year old Sammy fell asleep in Dean’s arms.

_“Sometimes my kid doesn’t get it. He doesn’t understand why people laugh at him. I don’t either, really. Sam never does anything to deserve it. My kid is good, Bobby. He’s so good, and they don’t get it.”_

One day, when Dean was about 11, John made the mistake of challenging Dean on it. Bobby remembers that day clear as anything, because it was the first (albeit not the last) time he kicked John out of his house and secretly hoped he’d never come back so he could give Sam and Dean a better life.

_Dean sat on the couch, some animated cartoon on the TV playing at a low volume. He’d turned it down after Sam fell asleep in his lap. There was a severe thunderstorm last night, and Sam’s afraid, so he didn’t get much rest._

_Dean lets him sleep now, though, fingers carding gently through his hair to soothe him into slumber and make sure that his sleep is dreamless and comfortable. Bobby sat in the armchair and read, letting the peacefulness of Sam’s delicate snores be his soundtrack._

_John came home from a hunt a little bloody and very irritated, and disrupted the domestic little scene they’d created._

_“Dean! Sam!” John bellowed, storming in to the room where the three were. Bobby looked up from his book, eyes narrowed, at the same time 11 year old Dean tightened his grip on Sam protectively and nearly snarled, “Shh! Dad, you’ll wake Sammy!”_

_“Wake him? Dean, it’s past noon.” John snapped back. He clearly wasn’t impressed with the tone Dean was using. It was not a common thing, Dean acting this way towards John, but he always stood up for Sam, and Bobby never failed to notice how Sam always came first, before everyone, for Dean._

_Even himself._

_Especially himself._

_And he’s so young to be thinking in such a selfless way, but that was just how Dean is. How he’s always been._

_“He’s napping.” Dean defends. “Sam’s afraid of thunderstorms, Dad. He hardly slept last night.” Dean knows this because they share a bed and Sam shook like a leaf in Dean’s arms all night._

_“Scared of thunderstorms.” John scoffs. “I can’t believe it. Christ. He’s afraid of his own damn shadow!”_

_Dean grits his teeth, and Bobby opens his mouth to say something, but Dean interrupts before he can. “He’s scared of thunder because he says it ‘sounds like gunshots after dad kills people’.” Dean’s voice is dripping with venom, and he doesn’t back down even under the fierce stare his father retaliates with._

_“Not people.” John barks. “Monsters.”_

_“He’s 7 years old.” Bobby replies icily. “He doesn’t know the difference.” He hates that the boys had to get mixed up in all of this so young. They’ll never get a normal childhood._

_Sam thinks his father kills people._

_“You’ve got to be_ kidding _me!” John growls. “Bobby, are you honestly siding with my 11 year old--”_

 _“Stop.” Dean says, and his voice is soft but it’s sharp and it’s got a ring of authority to it that Bobby has never heard before, and he sees John’s stunned expression and he feels nothing but pride, because he_ knows _Dean is going to make and excellent leader one day. Sam stirs in Dean’s arms and Dean hugs him closer. “My kid is sleeping. You’ll wake him.”_

_And if John’s face wasn’t red before, it’s red now. “Sam is not your kid. He’s your brother. Sam is my kid.”_

_Dean doesn’t even blink. “Sam is my kid.” he says, like John is stupid for missing something so obvious. “Sam is mine.”_

_‘He’s not.” John argues. “Dean you can’t call him that. He’s not yours.”_

_“He_ is. _” Dean seethes. “You don’t know. You’re never around to see how he loves me more than you.”_

_John was so stunned at that, Bobby watched his face turn red to green to bluish purple, and before John opens his mouth to start screaming profanities he didn’t want an 11 year old and 7 year old to hear, he stands, and tells John to get the hell out of his house._

_And John does, though he comes back three days later and doesn’t apologize, juts packs both his boys in the car and drives away._

Dean had always, always been that way with Sam, not letting anyone else have Sam when he was upset, always being Sam’s hero in a way no one else ever was for Sam.

Because really, it doesn’t matter what John thinks, if he thinks he was doing the best he could, given the circumstances or whatever…Dean _raised_ Sam. Dean was the one working three jobs in a strange town just to get dinner on the table for his growing kid. Dean was the one picking Sam up from school and asking him about his day because he genuinely cared. Dean tucked him in for bed and told him stories that involved happy endings, so unlike the ones people with their life get in reality. Dean was always the one to tell Sam _I love you_ as many times as a kid deserves to hear it and a lot more, because if anything, Dean loves Sam more than he loves himself, and Bobby _knows_ that Sam feels the same way.

Dean was the one who made Sam feel like he meant something.

Dean was only a kid, trying to raise a kid, but they both turned out amazing.

Bobby is proud of his boys, and he knows that although they find themselves in trouble more often than the sun rises and sets, they’ve always stayed together, and Bobby will always do whatever is necessary to help them.

He sighs, running a hand through his thinning hair. “Idjits.” He mutters under his breath, though it sounds more like an endearment than an insult.

Maybe it always had been Bobby’s _I love you._

-

Sam stares at the ground.

He knows that if Dean wasn’t repulsed by him before, he was now. He definitely was now.

-

“Bobby.” Megan sighed into the phone. “It’s me.”

Bobby didn’t like how tired she sounded. He decided to tell her so.

“It’s just been a long day.” Megan huffs. “I’m fine. Listen. I know I asked you to dig up some stuff on dream walking, but Dean is back now.”

“What about Sam?” Panic is quickly turning his veins to ice.

“Sam’s still, um, in his own head. Dean didn’t really explain what happened, but apparently Sam kicked him out.” She doesn’t sound tired. She sounds _exhausted._ Absolutely drained, like just trying to keep up with these boys was draining the very life out of her. Maybe that was it exactly—Sam and Dean _were_ hard to protect.

“Interesting.” Bobby muttered. It wasn’t interesting, more like terrifying, because never in his entire life had Bobby _ever_ seen Sam so much as tell Dean to give him some space, let alone forcibly kick him out of his head.

Something must’ve happened.

“You’re still going to want some information” Bobby mutters. “Trust me. Dean will find a way back in. He’s going to be the one to bring Sam back.”

“It’s too dangerous for him.” Megan objects.

“Dean doesn’t care.” Bobby informs her a little less than gently. “Sam is Dean’s…well, his entire life, pretty much. Dean has to do this for Sam, you have to let him do this, or it’s going to eat him alive.” Bobby knew that if someone else saved Sam Dean would never forgive himself for breaking the promise of _I’ll always keep you safe, Sammy._

Megan seems to consider this for a long time. “He could get hurt. He could hurt them both.”

“You need to let him do this.” Bobby echoes. He already knows the dangers. “If you try to stop him, he’ll do what has to to get to Sam. If that means hogtying you to a kitchen chair…” Bobby sighed helplessly. “Dean doesn’t let anything or anyone get in between him and Sam.”

She huffs at that but doesn’t otherwise reply.

“He’s an adult.” Bobby says confidently.

“Legally,” Mean allows. “But he’s still just a kid.”

Bobby stares thoughtfully out the window. “Dean was never a kid.” He tells her. “Let him do it, Megan, I mean it.”

She seems to be burdened incredibly when she agrees, but she does agree, and that’s something.

-

“We need to regroup.” Megan says for maybe the 10th time in a row. She keeps repeating herself, but no one is really listening. Dean is too busy holding Sam’s hands and playing with his fingers, looking lost and a little dead, and Kyle is staring at Meredith with curiosity, with Meredith works to soothe Dean, though all her attempts are soiled when Dean snaps something at her that sounded like a _don’t touch me,_ and she snapped her hand back like she’d been burned and didn’t try to rub his back again.

Megan and Kyle had come over and knocked on the door carefully, having to suffer through electric shocks to let Meredith know they were here. Dean didn’t say no to letting them in, so Meredith removed the wards and let them inside, but Dean hadn’t said a damn word since they came in almost half an hour ago.

Megan lets this routine continue for a little while longer, because from what she understands from the tone of surprise in Bobby’s voice when he heard that Sam had kicked Dean out combined with the utter look of shock on Dean’s face even now, she knew that this was something big to them, and some time to deal with it would be much appreciated.

“We need time,” Was all she whispered to Kyle.

Kyle turns to her, and the way he eyes her seems sophisticated and very sad, like he’s used to being surrounded by an era of disappointment and destroyed hope, and then a second later, realized that maybe she’s right—Kyle did say that his uncle used to tell him he was responsible for his parents death.

“Do we have time?” He wondered.

And for the first time, Megan wondered if maybe, just maybe, there was some sort of time limit for how long they really had to get Sam out before he got caught in the web of routine, how long they had until everything in Sam’s head seemed so real, he started imagingin the real Dean as the crazy hallucination.

Megan reaches out to smooth back his hair, because she’s not sure what else to really do. “I hope so, kid.” She whispers. “I hope so.”

-

“I got to hear him talk.” Dean’s voice is the first sound to be made in two hours, possibly more. Megan lost count a while ago. “His voice is beautiful. Really beautiful.” Dean smile then, down at Sam, like he just expects his kid to wake up and start talking once more.

“He’s a mute,” Dean says thoughtfully, like they all weren’t already aware, looking back at Sam, who, of course, hasn’t changed positions, his eyes still closed, lips parted just slightly. Dean is still holding his hand. “Wasn’t _exactly_ born one,” He squints, like he’s trying hard to remember something. “I think…sometimes, I feel like I can remember him talking, when he was a kid. Our mom, she died on his first birthday.” Megan’s head snaps up. She’d never heard Dean mention his mother before, she just guessed that she was out of the picture. “We’ve never been able to figure out how, exactly, or more specifically, _what,_ but it was a fire. In his nursery. I was there with him.” Dean pauses. Breathes.

“I always used to do that, y’know? Wait until Mom thought I was asleep and then crawl into Sam’s room and just hold his hand through the crib bars. I don’t know why. I just, back then…even know, I guess...” He snorts out a small laugh, dry and without humor. “I just never wanted him to be alone. I still don’t. It didn’t feel right going to bed when I knew that he was going to be all alone. I had to keep him safe. I promise I’d be the best big brother ever. I gotta…gotta live up to that.”

He holds onto Sam’s ankle with the hand that doesn’t grip his little brothers. Grounds himself. Continues.

He doesn’t know why he’s saying all this, but he likes the feeling it gives him. Emptiness—the good kind. Release.  Some sort of pressure escaping his chest in one huge rush and he can’t stop it, doesn’t really _want_ to.

Megan and Kyle are watching him steadily. Waiting.

Meredith’s eyes are closed like she can’t bear to watch Dean’s face. Or maybe she’s concentrating on something. Hard to tell, really.

“Before that, Sam…he _talked._ I’m almost sure of it. I mean, somewhere in the house, there was home videos, there had to be something of him talking, because I know, I _know,_ my name was his first word.” Dean chokes out, and he’s never really thought of it before, but it this him now like a tonne of bricks, and he suddenly can’t deny that he really _does_ remember. The memory flows into his head like water from a broken dam.

_He was just a kid, barely 4. Sitting with Sam in his lap, playing with his hands while their mother cooked pancakes, Saturday morning cartoons on the TV. John was mushing up some bananas for Sammy—those were his favourite, bananas. Dean was cooing softly to Sam like he always did, when suddenly, Sam had turned his big hazel eyes on Dean and gave him a huge grin (he had one tooth, just one) and smacked one of his small hands on Dean’s cheek, and drooled out, “De.”_

And that was it, and _Dean remembers._ He remembers Mary stopping what she was doing and John freezing mid-mash, and they rushed over to Sam to shower him with praise and kisses and they tried to get him to say it again but Sam only giggled at them.

Dean remembers that when their parents had gone back to make sure that 1. The pancakes weren’t going to set the house on fire and 2. Sam got his bananas, Sam said it again. And again. And again, and Dean remembers he was just so damn proud.

He remembers.

He’s not sure how he ever forgot. But this….this could change everything.

“Selective mutisim.” Dean tried the words carefully on his tongue. “Sam used to speak. He could. He _can.”_

“He’s just…” Megan trailed off, looking for the right words, her voice as soft as a whisper. “forgotten how.”

Dean wants to cry. He really, _really_ wants to get mad, because all these years he’s deprived himself of Sam’s voice, and all these years, he never knew. He didn’t remember.

Instead, he smiles.


	12. Hazel Eyes, I Was So Colorblind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Don’t you see?” She whispers, staring into her palms like there was something for Kyle to see there. “Dean has one reason, and one reason only he didn’t give up the fight years ago, why he didn’t turn his gun to himself, and that reason is the 15 year old boy lying comatose in the motel room across town.” Meredith continues softly, her voice just a hush in the silence of the room, as though the universe hung on every word she rasped. “Sam is Dean’s salvation, and in the same way, Dean must be Sam’s.”

_**"**_ **I believe wherever dreams dwell, the heart calls it home."**  - ** _Dodinsky_**

**_-_ **

“You’ve missed two days of school in a row.” Dean mutters, his feet scuffing the ground as they trudge their way towards school like they were walking towards some sort of death sentence, walking towards their execution. “Make sure to get notes and any work you missed from classmates while you were away. You don’t want to fall behind, trust me.”

Sam glances over at him before going back to looking down at his sneakers. Suddenly, they seemed very interesting.

He nods in acknowledgement of Dean’s words, before returning back to watching his toes scuff along the pavement. His movements are stiff and forced, he feels overtired and school is the last thing he wanted to go through right now.

Sam needed to be alone with himself and his thoughts that scare him half to death. Sam needed to figure out what the hell he was going to do with himself.

They continue in silence that felt thick and suffocating until they reach the school doors, parting ways without a word.

-

Kyle isn’t in class, and Sam doesn’t see him at lunch.

Maybe he’s just sick.

Or maybe something is wrong.

-

The last two periods of the day pass seemingly quickly.

It makes him uneasy, this churning feeling in his stomach.

Kate and Lacy, who Kyle had introduced him to, are also missing.

Sam tries to remember what Dean told him, about being taken, but it all gets jumbled in his head and he can’t form a coherent thought. When he tries to remember how it felt when Dean soothed him, when Dean held him, his head starts to pound and he covers his ears with his hands, ignoring this fake Dean as he tries to catch up with Sam to walk home.

By now, Sam knows something is wrong.

-

Dean is alone with Sam finally, in what feels like days. Meredith and Megan and Kyle all went out to pick up some grocery things for the hotel room, because when they’d asked, Dean honestly couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten anything.

But at least now it was just him and his kid and the silence, and that’s the way it had always been between them, before words went and complicated it all. It had always been this, they had always had this.

“Sammy,” Dean says, breaking the quiet stillness of the room. “You’ve never pushed me away before.” Dean grabs Sam’s hand almost roughly, the effort was so desperate, like he was drowning and Sam was his only hope of survival.

“I shouldn’t have done that. I shouldn’t have read your journal, baby, please.” Dean is too numb to cry at this point, his emotions are raw things he doesn’t recognize, maybe they’ve taken a vacation or maybe he’s so used to feeling this gut wrenching desperation he’s become oblivious to it. “I can’t do this anymore, Sam, I _can’t._ I can’t just sit here and keep talking and hope that maybe by some miracle, you’ll decide to wake up, because that’s selfish because _I know_ that everything seems perfect in that life, and that you can talk and laugh and you have friends and moms alive and your dads favourite but Sam…” Dean’s voice breaks a little, then. He can’t control it.

Or, if he can, he doesn’t try.

“Am I not enough for you?” Dean whispers, dropping his head onto Sam’s chest limply, dying to hear Sam’s heartbeat. “I can be enough. I can be everything you need, Sammy, please, I _promise._ I’ll be your best friend, I’ll be your big brother, you’re protector, your punching bag you’re l--” Dean stops himself before he says _lover,_ because admitting it out loud feels wrong. That is a confession to be made in whispers and soft breaths and made a time where he can kiss Sam and know that Sam is able to push him away or pull him in tighter. Dean has to wait until he knows that Sam wants _them._ “I’ll just, I’ll be enough.”

-

_You’re already more than I’ll ever deserve._

_-_

“Dean is going to find out, and when he does…” Megan trails off, swallowing. “He is going to _flip.”_

Kyle frowns. He doesn’t care, and Megan can tell. She sees the blind determination in Kyle’s eyes. He’s going to go through with this, he doesn’t care about what happens to him. He just wants Sam back. “I’m sick of just sitting around waiting for Sam to wake himself up. He _can’t._ He’s stuck.”

Megan wonders if Sam knows just how far people are willing to go for him. He must be a really amazing kid, able to draw strangers into risking their life for him, and Megan knows for a fact that Kyle barely knows Sam, and he’s already doing everything in his power to save him.

Hell, she herself risked her life and her mental health by going to kill the very thing that had been giving her nightmares for _years._ She hoped Sam was stronger, that the Ghul wouldn’t plague his dreams the way it did for her.

“I’ve told you before, and I’ll tell you again,” Meredith says through clenched teeth. “This is _not_ a good idea.”

“Sam is trapped.” Kyle retorts, his tone edging on pure desperation. “He’s kicked Dean out. He’s not going to wake himself up. He needs _help,_ and I think I can convince him. I have to at least try.”

“Dean will not tolerate this.” Meredith says. Her voice is strong and confident, and for a moment, Megan wonders briefly if Meredith could see the future. “It is not right.”

“I don’t care.” Kyle doesn’t miss a beat. “If Dean truly loves Sam--”

“Don’t question their love, boy,” Meredith warns, her voice as stern as Megan had ever heard from the normally soft voiced woman.

“—then he wouldn’t care _who_ brought Sam back, just as long as he was back.” Kyle finishes hardly.

“You don’t understand,” Meredith sighs, running a hand through her thick mass of curls. “Dean _needs_ to do this. You going into Sam’s head is never going to work.”

“I have to try.” Kyle says, and Megan can tell by the set of his jaw and the clenching of his fists that he absolutely is not willing to budge on this.

Meredith watches him for what seems like forever, before she finally sighs, nodding. “I suppose you do.” She seems reluctant to agree, but she does agree, which is something.

Kyle seems a little suspicious at that reply, but he lies down back on the bed, and shuts his eyes, waiting.

“Please, be careful.” Megan pleads. “And please…bring Sammy back.” The nickname felt a little strange rolling off of her tongue, but also…sort of right. Like it belonged there.

“I will.” Kyle whispers, his eyes still closed as Meredith rests a palm on his forehead.

Right before she sends him in, she shakes her head, looking dismayed. “No,” Meredith disagrees, shaking her head ever so slightly. “You won’t.”

-

The first thing Kyle notices, is that he’s in a nursery.

For a baby.

Confusion makes him grit his teeth, before he shakes his head. Where was Sam? Why would Meredith put him in here? It didn’t fit that in Sam’s perfect world, there’d be a baby.

Before Kyle can do anything else, a child comes sneaking in past the door, shutting it quietly behind him.

Kyle is too in shock to react as the little boy tip toes his way across the room until he’s right beside the crib, and then he snakes his little hand through the bars of the crib, and grabs onto the babies hand. “Happy birthday,” The child whispers.

Kyle doesn’t get it. Is Sam here in this house? Who are these children?

“Hello? Little boy?” Kyle asks softly, not wanting to wake the baby. Screaming children always made him uneasy, he never knew how to deal with them.

The boy doesn’t react, as if he never heard Kyle speak at all.

Frowning to himself, Kyle takes a step closer, and puts a hand on the boys shoulder.

And it passes through the child as if Kyle was made of vapor.

Kyle cradles his hand to his chest protectively, like he’d been shocked or burned, and watches the boy curiously, panic starting to set in. What if Meredith had sent him into someone else’s head? What if he was in some sort of parallel universe? What if he was stuck here, in some sort of limbo? Or, oh _god,_ what if he was _dead?_

It wasn’t impossible, for him to be dead right now. Who knows, maybe someone broke into the motel room just as he was going under and shot them all, or something equally as awful. Maybe Dean killed him.

Kyle grimaces. It wasn’t really a stretch—the eldest Winchester brother really seemed to have it out for him.

 _And for no good reason, too,_ Kyle broods. They both have a common goal—bring Sam back. Yet, Dean insists on yelling at him and threatening to kill him every time Kyle opens his mouth or takes a step towards Sam.

Throughout his inner monologue, Kyle hadn’t noticed that the child had fallen asleep with his hand still clutching that of the babies in the crib, and now a beautiful blonde woman was shaking her head, smiling as she wanders into the room, gazing at them affectionately.

“Every night,” She sighs to herself, approaching the boy. “Maybe we’ll just have to have you boys share rooms. That can’t be comfortable.”

She leans down to scoop up the child, but before she can, a dark figure appears suddenly behind her, and starts to move around her to get to the baby.

The woman, when she spots the figure, seems frozen in fear, and she opens her mouth to scream, but no sound comes out, as if her voice had been stolen from her.

 Voiceless, she tries to defend her children from the figure, and Kyle steps in to help, but his attempts are all in vain—the shadow walks through him, and leans over the crib, brushing his hands along the babies face as if he and the woman have no effect on him at all.

The woman is angry now—furious, even, and she takes the sort of stance that comes with years of fighting, and her expression is so focused and so ready that even amidst all chaos, Kyle has the time to wonder who she is, and what she’d done to make her look and stand the way she did.

She launches herself at the figure, screaming silently, not even a whisper escaping her lips, before the figure turns around, clearly agitated, and flicks it’s wrist.

The woman is engulfed in horrible flames, and pinned to the ceiling, as blood spreads across her once pure white nightgown. It all happens so fast Kyle isn’t even sure his eyes weren’t just playing some horrible trick on him.

But no, this was happening, and Kyle had to get out of there, _now._ His heart is racing so loud in his ears he can barely focus on anything else.

Kyle stumbles back in horror—he wants to help the woman but he’s not sure what’s going on, and every time he’s tried to do something before, the scene just goes on without him, his actions have no effect.

Even still, there is a baby and a child who can’t be more than four years old in a room with a growing fire, so he has to try to do _something._ He has to try.

When he turns back to the crib, his eyes watering from the smoke and the awful smell of burning flesh, Kyle sees that the child is cradling the baby in his arms, balancing him in a way that looks practiced, like the child held that baby a lot.

A man appears in the doorway, alarmed.

Kyle has to watch as his gaze goes from who is presumably his wife, dead and burning on the ceiling, to his two young boys. “Take your brother outside as fast as you can!” The man barks. “Now, Dean! _Go!”_

The child seems startles for about 3 seconds before his little legs snap into action, and he runs as fast as he is apparently able to away from the flames and the horror and Kyle doesn’t get any of it, except he suddenly does and it’s _awful._

Sam and Dean.

_Dean pulled Sam from the fire. Dean saved Sam’s life when he was only four years old._

Their mother, dead on the ceiling after she’d been robbed of her voice.

Something happened to them.

That man, that _thing,_ did something to Sam. Kyle knows it.

He doesn’t know _why_ Meredith decided to send him back in time (or whatever, Kyle doesn’t know what to call this other than time travel, and the idea seems a little crazy and a lot impossible, but for the things he’d seen recently…he doesn’t rule it out) or why she’d want him to see this horrible turn of events, but before he can follow what he guessed was a little kid version of Dean outside, the scenery around him changes.

It’s midafternoon, and the sun is warming his skin and making him squint—but it feels good and he welcomes the sensation as he tries to get his bearings. He’s outside.

This isn’t familiar in the slightest. This is…some sort of…car junkyard. But with a house on the property?

Well, then, fine. Kyle will just have to look for Sam and Dean, since he was pretty sure that was the theme to his time travelling adventures. Shouldn’t be that hard.

He does a 360 degree turn, a hand on his forehead shielding his eyes from the harsh light of the sun, as he decides he’ll try the house first. It seems like the most likely place for Sam and Dean to be anyway.

Kyle knocks once, and when no one enters, he lets himself in.

He’s anxious, like this stupid trip down memory lane is just wasting time (it is). Time they _could_ be using to convince Sam to wake up.

That’s when he spots them.

Dean looks maybe 6, and he’s grinning at the toddler who looks exactly like Kyle would picture Sam to look as a two year old—huge hazel eyes, shaggy brown hair, and plump cheeks with dimples deep as the grand canyon.

“No, Sammy,” Dean shakes his head, smile affectionately at his little brother. “Like _this,_ see?” He holds Sam’s hand up by his wrist, and pats his own hand against Sam’s, and Kyle eventually figures out Dean is trying to teach Sam how to play patty-cake.

“Patty cake, patty cake, bakers men…” Dean’s soprano voice hums out.

Sam grins at him and makes grabby hands at Dean’s fingers, refusing to pat back and co-operate, instead seeking out Dean’s hands just to hold.

“Go on, Sam. Sing the rhyme with your brother.” A deeper voice urges.

Kyle follows the sound and notices the man from the first memory (though he looks like he needs about 50 years of sleep and a few thousand hugs) sitting on the couch stiffly, watching his boys like hawks.

Another man enters the room and sets down a little bowl of diced strawberries between the two boys, and Sam reaches for one eagerly, his fat little hands picking out a piece of strawberry and clumsily pushing it at Dean’s lips until the older boy giggled and took it, pretending to chew on Sam’s fingers, which made Sam wiggle and worm, his face red from his smile.

“Leave it alone, John.” The man who’d brought the strawberries rasped out, looking affectionately at the two boys. “They’re happy.”

“He should be talking by now, Bobby.” The one called John grits. “I don’t understand.

“There’s such thing as being mute,” The man referred to as Bobby points out sharply. “And it’s not a big deal, John. You’ll just have to figure out how to work around it.”

“My boy ain’t no _mute.”_ John spits out the word like it’s dirty, and narrows his eyes at Dean. “Sing,” He demands.

“Patty cake, patty cake, bakers men,” Dean sings, not caring when Sam doesn’t join him, and seemingly unaffected by the tense air between his father, and whoever Bobby is to him. “Bake us a cake as fast as you can! Roll it, pat it, mark it with a D, and put it in the oven for Sammy and me!” Dean laughs as Sam tries to feed him more strawberries.

“He should be talking.” John says again, watching Sam like he expected his son to open his mouth and start singing the alphabet any minute now.

“But he isn’t.” Dean suddenly says, his gaze turning as solemn as Kyle had ever seen a 6 year olds gaze be, and he pulls Sam into his arms and holds him tightly, careful to avoid knocking over the strawberries. “And I think its okay.”

-

_Dean defended Sam when no one else would._

_-_

Now it’s night time, and Kyle is standing in a dark motel room. He thinks for a minute he’s back with Megan and Meredith, before he realizes this room is not familiar.

“Goodnight, Sammy.” Dean tells him. They’re on separate beds, but and Sam’s body looks lost in all the comforters and covers piled atop him. Dean looks about 8, and Sam’s probably 4.

Sam turns his head to look at Dean, and then uses his fingers to mime what looks like fangs, before pointing under his bed.

“There’s no such thing as monsters.” Dean’s voice sounds strained, young as he is, like he knows he’s lying and doesn’t want Sam to know. “And there’s none under your bed.”

So…Dean knew about monsters all this time? How young _was_ he when he found out?

Kyle turns to look out the window, feeling dismayed and saddened for Dean’s loss of childhood innocence, even though he practically despises the guy. Kyle thinks of his own situation, how the burden of being father and motherless affected him, how he felt about being blamed for their death for such a long time.

He didn’t want to go back to his uncle.

There’s a rifle propped up against the door, and a knife set spread out along the kitchen table.

Sam tilts his head, resembling a puppy. Even Kyle can read the clear pleading in Sam’s eyes.

“Fine, I’ll check.” Dean says softly, clambering out of bed and to peek under Sam’s. He takes a few minutes, as if being thorough. Finally he sticks his head up by Sam’s. “Nothing,” Dean promises, ruffling Sam’s hair. “Now get some sleep. Dad should be back tomorrow morning, so we’ll need to get up early to pack up our things.”

Sam grabs Dean’s hand and holds on, and tugs it twice.

“Sam, there are two beds.”

Sam tugs twice again.

Dean looks like he considers protesting again, but realizes he’s going to fail, and with a soft sigh, he succumbs, climbing into Sam’s bed, and rolling onto his back, staring up at the ceiling.

If it was dark enough that Kyle couldn’t see Dean’s features, he might assume Dean was frustrated with Sam, or even annoyed, but Dean was smiling a tiny smile, like he was trying to hide it—although it was clear Sam was not worried Dean was angry, since he grinned widely at his brother before launching himself at Dean, and tucking himself up at Dean’s side like he belonged there and only there.

-

_Dean rescued Sam from the monsters even when the monsters were in Sam’s head._

-

Dean is probably about 10, now, and they’re in another motel room, but something about the scene makes Kyle want to laugh because of how absurd it looks.

Dean is cleaning guns, and it’s not funny at all, it’s just so strange to see such little hands working expertly with the gun and tools, a concentrated look on his face, that Kyle has to blink three or four times to adjust to the strange scene before him.

He glances around the room, knowing Sam will be in here somewhere, when he spots him, curled in on himself on the couch, the 6 year old trying to make himself seem even smaller than his petite frame already is. Seriously, the kid needs a _hamburger._ Or 12. Kyle is sure that if that big hand me down shirt wasn’t covering Sam, Kyle’d be able to count his ribs.

Their father, John, sits across from Sam, and although Sam is watching cartoons, John is watching Sam.

“Sam, what is the main characters name, of the TV show?” John gestures to the TV screen, squinting at his son’s face like he’s searching for something evil there.

Sam looks like a dear caught in headlights, when he turns his head to John, his body folding in over itself, before he turns to Dean like he’s asking for help and Dean is the only one who can provide it.

“Duh, dad. Batman. Seriously, Sam isn’t stupid. That was a dumb question.” Dean rolls his eyes like he’s annoyed but Kyle can tell that he’s actually upset. Dean just acts so _mature_ for his age, he’s already hiding emotions.

John gives his eldest son a look. “I was asking Sam, not you, Dean.”

“Sam doesn’t want to answer you.” Dean retorts without hesitation. “He’s watching cartoons.”

“I am your father, and you will not talk to be that way,” John warns sternly, though his voice remains even. “Sam, who do you like best?”

“Sam likes Batman. He wants be just like batman, y’know? Save people. Like you do, dad.” Dean’s voice is still hard, like he’s warning John not to push the subject with Sam, because Dean _will_ not tolerate it.

John gives him another glare, but drops it, and Sam and Dean both exhale.

Afterwards, when Sam has fallen asleep for his presumed nap, John sits down with Dean, and Kyle walks closer to hear their whispered conversation.

“Why do you do that to him, dad? You know he can’t talk.” Dean accuses.

“He should be able to. He _can_ talk, Dean.” Kyle wonders if John remembered about how Sam could talk before, like when Dean finally recalled his baby brother saying his first words. Maybe this is why John is so frustrated with Sam. He just doesn’t understand.

“You can’t make him do anything he doesn’t wanna do.” Dean says, sticking up his chin, and setting the gun down. This Dean doesn’t deny that Sam could ever talk, so maybe this Dean still remembers. He’s young enough to. “And if he doesn’t want to talk, then he doesn’t have to. I like him fine just the way he is.”

John stares at his son for what feels like hours, but probably is only about 10 minutes, before pushing away from the table with frustration, and leaving.

Bobby’s voice comes from the doorway. “Don’t mind him too much, Dean.” He rasps. “You’re doing a fine job, raising that boy. Better than your daddy.”

Dean looks down at the coffee table, and smiles. It’s a small smile, but it’s real. He nods. “I know, Bobby.” He murmurs. “I know.”

-

_Dean was Sam’s savior against those who should have never been an enemy. Dean raised Sam himself, when their father became someone to fear rather than someone to run to._

-

Kyle wakes up with a gasp, bolting upright like so many weeks ago, looking around. Although he’s disoriented, he knows he’s awake and not just transferred into another dream…something about it just feels different. “I don’t--”

“Easy,” Megan’s voice sounds foggy for a minute, before the ringing in his ears faded. “You were out for a while. I made Meredith bring you back.”

“A while?” Kyle croaked, rubbing his eyes.

“Just over 3 hours.” Meredith answers. Kyle focuses his vision to see she is sitting in front of him, looking calm and collected and fuck—even a little smug.

Megan doesn’t look overly pleased, but she’s not _angry._ Kyle somehow feels a little betrayed. Because he’s _pissed._

“What the hell was _that?”_ Kyle demands, narrowing his eyes. “You said you’d put me in Sam’s head, in the dream the Gull made, or whatever! You _lied_!”

“That was not meant to be.” Meredith sighs, clasping her hands in her lap and smiling softly at Kyle. “Didn’t you understand the lesson of what happened? Of what I showed you?”

“No.” Kyle says stupidly, refusing to play her game.

Meredith is intent on telling Kyle anyway, on making him understand.

“Don’t you see?” She whispers, staring into her palms like there was something for Kyle to see there. “Dean has one reason, and one reason only he didn’t give up the fight years ago, why he didn’t turn his gun to himself, and that reason is the 15 year old boy lying comatose in the motel room across town.” Meredith continues softly, her voice just a hush in the silence of the room, as though the universe hung on every word she rasped. “Sam is Dean’s salvation, and in the same way, Dean must be Sam’s.”

“I don’t understand,” Kyle says, narrowing his eyes at her though his resolve was crumbling. He hadn’t been able to fathom what it must’ve been like growing up for Sam and Dean, only having each other. With John being far from winning father of the year award, and Sam being mute…having to travel from place to place? All those strange people who didn’t understand Sam, who didn’t care to understand?

Kyle shuddered. It sounded awful.

Meredith turns to him, closing her palms into fists. “Dean,” She says, as if she’s calling for him, and expecting a reply. “must be the one to save Sam. It has always been this way, and so it will continue to be this way forever. It’s the natural order. Like the sun rises in the east and sets in the west, Dean will be the one to wake Sam.”

-

Kyle swallows.

And he understands.

And he pulls out his phone.

And he calls Dean.

-

Dean doesn’t plan on answering—really, he doesn’t. He has zero interest in talking to Kyle, same as always, but something about Kyle actually _calling_ him made something in Dean twitch. Megan might be hurt. Or Meredith. Something could be wrong. They’d been gone three hours, and he doesn’t know how long it takes _girls_ to grocery shop, but he and Sam get all their groceries done in under an hour. It’s been three.

So he answers.

“What.” Dean says sharply, holding Sam’s hand.

“You have to find a way to save Sam.”

Dean wants to hit something, the same anger he always feels when Kyle opens his damn mouth courses through him. “You think I don’t know that? Where the hell have _you_ been? I thought you were just quickly hitting one store.” Dean accuses.

“Dean, you don’t understand. It _has_ to be you, no one else will be able to save him,” Kyle sounds desperate, which makes Dean pause, but the anger doesn’t fade….just hesitates.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“ _Save him, Dean!”_ Kyle cries so loudly Dean pulls the phone away from his ear. “You have to!”

“I’m _trying!_ Fuck!” Dean says loudly. He feels a little guilty, because he’s used to tip toeing around Sam when he’s asleep—and he does look asleep. But Dean tells himself that if he can get as loud as he wants and Sam won’t even twitch.

“Only you can do it.”

“Tell me what the hell is going on right now, before I find you myself and shove my machete up your ass. Without lube.” Dean snarls. “Do I make myself clear?”

“This isn’t a joke, or anything, Dean, for fucks sake just bring him back.” Kyle pleads. “Please.”

“He’s my baby brother.” Dean chokes. “I’ve been protecting him since the day he was _born,_ you think that I, out of everyone, don’t want him back the most? Because I’ve never gone this long without him _ever,_ and I’m starting to shake and I get the worst fucking nightmares—when I actually can manage to get some sleep—and I cry _all the time_ because he’s stuck in his own damn head because he got taken on _my_ watch, and now I can’t even figure out how to wake him up.” Dean’s yelling, but he feels like his voice is getting swallowed by the silence Sam produces.

“I know, Dean.” Kyle whispers. “I know.”

“So don’t tell me to save him, like I’m not trying.” Dean says, feeling equally as broken as the hotel lamp pieces lying in the corner from when he’d smashed against the wall in a moment of blind rage.

“I know.” Kyle echoes himself. “Goodbye.”

The line goes dead.

-

Sam is scared. He doesn’t know what’s happening but everything is so _loud_ he can’t even hear himself when he sobs.Dean’s voice is in his head and he doesn’t understand why, but it’s there and it’s scaring him. He’s so scared he kind of forgets everything but the fear carving out a pit in his stomach.

_I’m trying! Fuck!_

Sam rocks back and forth. He doesn’t understand.

_Do I make myself clear?_

No. No. No. No, no, no, no, no--

Sam taps his finger against the bed beside him, wishing instead for Dean’s thigh, wishing instead for Dean’s hand stilling him, for Dean’s arms pulling him and holding him tight, Dean’s voice telling him it’s all going to be okay despite the fact that now _Dean knows every single thing that Sam ever wrote about him._

His breath starts coming out in panicked little gasps.

He doesn’t _understand._

What is he supposed to do now? Stay in his own head forever? Dean will hate him out there, because now _Dean knows_ and it’s _not okay_ and maybe it never will be okay. Dean knows all of Sam’s dirtiest secrets, all the confessions his pen whispered against those pages when Dean was asleep. Dean knows just how in love Sam is with him and none of it is _okay,_ because how can it be, when what Sam feels is so wrong, so disgusting?

Sam is shaking.

He’s ruined everything between them. If he thought that _maybe_ he had some sort of slim chance that Dean might, with time, be able to forget the way Sam feels, that hope is long gone. Sam would be lucky if Dean doesn’t put a bullet through his head the second he sees him.

Okay, so maybe that’s wrong. Dean might hate Sam for all he is, but Dean would never, _ever_ hurt Sam. After all, throughout all these years, all Dean has done is keep Sam safe. Why would he ruin the effort, put to waste all those times Dean had almost died to protect his little brother, by killing Sam himself?

But then again, living in a world that didn’t include Dean Winchester seems worse than dying by far.

Sam’s hyperventilating.

He wants Dean, but he doesn’t want Dean to know how much. He wants them to go back to when touches were easy, he wants to return to the times when Sam never hesitated to crawl into Dean’s arms because it was just that simple. He belonged there.

But now Sam wonders if maybe Dean’s arms was a foreign place where he was no longer welcomed.

He doesn’t understand.

Why would Dean do that?

He said it was because he missed Sam.

But that was probably a lie.

_Wait, a lie?_

Dean never lies to Sam. _Ever._ To everyone else, he’s a pro. But he doesn’t, he _can’t_ lie to Sam.

Dean didn’t miss him.

Dean lied.

Dean _lied to him._

Sam closes his eyes and wishes he was dead.

-

“What the hell is happening to him!?” Megan demands, bursting through the door at exactly the moment everything turns to chaos, as Dean panics, his hands fluttering uselessly around his kid. The noises, the way Sam’s eyes were screwed shut against the world, his hands curled in tight fists, it all made Dean want to scream in fear.

This is his kid, and Dean should know how to fix whatever is wrong. How to fix Sam.

But he doesn’t and he’s terrified.

“I don’t know,” For the first time, Meredith sounds scared. Terrified, even. Her calm demeanour is lost, and her hands shake when she pushes Sam’s hair out of his eyes, as if she is trying to soothe him as she steps closer.

“ _Do something!”_ Kyle pleads. Dean is too much in agreement with him to really tell him to fuck off. Something must be done, his kid _is not_ okay. His baby boy is not okay.

Sam makes a choked sound in the back of his throat, and the realization hits Dean like a tonne of bricks.

“Stop!” Dean cries, his hands flying out beside him as if to shield Sam. “Stop, stop, it’s a panic attack!”

“What?” Megan chokes, trying to do compressions on Sam’s chest, which Dean didn’t exactly blame her for. Sam sounded like he was choking, like he couldn’t breathe.

“A panic attack!” He says again, shoving her off and not bothering to be gentle. He pushes everyone away from Sam and gives them his all-powerful death-stare when they try to approach. “He needs space.” Dean says, even as he pulls Sam closer. Space, yes, but not space from _him._ Sam never needed space from Dean. Sam is limp in his arms, but Dean holds him tightly, and he rocks him like he always does when Sam’s anxiety flares up.

-

_I don’t know if you can hear me, baby boy._

Sam closes his eyes, still shaking, still so afraid, and he focusses on the voice he loves so much, the voice that saves him, the voice that can destroy him without even trying.

**I can.**

_But I’m here, and I’ve got you. And it’s going to be okay, Sammy, I promise._

**No, it’s not. It’s okay, Dean, you don’t have to pretend. You don’t have to take care of me anymore. I’m not going to hold you down anymore.**

_You’re scaring the hell out of me, kid. Please, stop shaking. Breathe, for me, yeah? Ready? Deep breath._

Sam hears Dean breathe and it sounds a little something like coming home, and without even really meaning to, Sam inhales deeply, and then exhales, with more control than before.

_You did it. That’s it, baby, just like that. You’re doing so good. Thank you. Thank you._

Sam’s heart swells. He loves Dean, he loves him so much, and he doesn’t want anything else other than to just wrap his arms around Dean and be held, just to hold and be held. He wants to feel Dean around him and hear Dean’s breath against his neck, wants Dean to talk to him some more.

As if, for once, the universe was on his side, Sam feels like he is emerging from being held under a tub of water for an impossible amount of time, and with a sharp intake of air, he bolts upright.

-

“You did it,” Dean praises with tears in his eyes when Sam breathes. “That’s it, baby, just like that. You’re doing so good. Thank you. Thank you.” Dean chokes.

Meredith, Megan and Kyle all breathe a collective sigh of relief as they, along with Dean, see that Sam’s chest has resumed its normal rise and fall rhythm. The chaos has resided, Sam is safe once again.

Finally, Dean feels like he’d done something right. He’d been able to do something, been able to help in some way.

Just as Dean is stroking Sam’s hair like he always does after Sam has a panic attack or gets upset, Sam’s breathing stutters and Dean panics, he’s sure Sam is going to have another attack, and it’s going to happen all over again and Dean _really_ isn’t sure his heart can take another assault, doesn’t think he can deal with seeing Sam so helpless against  himself again.

And then Dean tastes a little of what they call faith, because Sam’s hand tightens on his in a white knuckle grip.

And suddenly, Sam’s eyes open wide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty sure ya'll hate me after that cliff hanger, but fear not! The story doesn't end there! I still have a lot planned for this verse! (Can you believe the word count is 60K+?)   
> As always, I /love/ comments and you can also inbox me on tumblr and tell me what you think, or yell at me! My tumblr is wincestplease (:
> 
> Suggestions for songs to use as titles of chapters or as the starting quote of the chapter are ALWAYS welcome! This chapters song is It Was Always You by Maroon 5 and it was suggested to me by a tumblr anon (:
> 
> I'll be seeing you hopefully very soon, my loves, thank you so much for the amazing continued support on this fic!  
> Much love x


	13. I'd Take the Weight, I'm Strong Enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean noses at Sam’s neck, aware that he’s pushing the boundaries between brotherly and romantic, aware that the lines in their relationship are getting more and more blurred lately and knowing that he doesn’t care one bit, knowing that Sam is pulling him closer and tipping his chin back to give Dean more room, his hands holding tightly to Dean’s hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally.

**"Sometimes, pain is all that lets you know you're alive." -Robert Jordan, _Crossroads of Twilight_**

**_-_ **

Sam isn’t sure what’s happening—not really. Everything is so bright, and his nerves are overwhelmed with _feeling._ He can feel the itchy softness of some sort of blanket beneath him, and then he can feel hands lifting him, cradling him, and he can feel breath ghosting over his neck and he can feel _Dean_ (finally, _finally,_ Dean) but he can’t hear anything until suddenly he can hear everything all at once and it’s perfect, it’s everything, because Sam _knows._

It’s so good because Sam knows this is the real Dean, 100% the Dean that was there when Sam took his first steps and the Dean that held Sam’s hand on the first day of school and didn’t ever let anybody make him sad. This is the Dean that made Sam laugh when he couldn’t stop crying after Cindy Markelle told him he was stupid in third grade, the Dean that almost died on a Wendigo hunt because he was protecting his little brother, and this is the Dean that Sam is in love with.

And Sam is scared because he doesn’t know where they can even ever go from here after all that had happened between them, after all he’s done to fuck it all up, but he’s in love and he knows he is and this closeness is not to be taken for granted so he leans into his soul mate and lets himself be held as he cries.

-

It all happens so fast, Dean isn’t really even sure what to do when Sam’s arms snap to life and he curls around Dean like its instinct, like how babies grab on to your finger when you offer it to them. Reflex.

It’s so sad that it surprises Dean, because all this time, Dean had been hugging Sam’s limp body, hold Sam’s lifeless hand, and all this time, Dean had forgotten how good it felt just to have his kids body curled around him, and he hesitated on his reaction to hold Sam back, halfway unsure of how to proceed…but muscle memory saved him as it often did for a hunter.

He just wraps his arms around Sam, and holds him as tight as he can without fear of completely crushing Sam’s ribs, and he doesn’t realize he’s crying until he watches the wetness from his cheeks drop onto Sam’s hair.

It’s over, it’s _over,_ and all of this will pass and Sam will be curled in his arms watching TV and playing with the hairs on the nape of Dean’s neck soon, soon, soon, because that’s just how they are, it’s the Winchester way.

You go through hell, and then you keep going.

At least, Dean hopes that is the case. Sam is strong, but to have to readjust to writing down everything and their own brand of sign language will likely be frustrating, and will take time.

But Dean has all the time in the world to dedicate to his kid, and no one is going to stop him.

They’re going to get through this, and knowing that feels like knowing everything you could ever want to know.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Dean soothes. “Shh. Sammy, please. It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

It’s Sam’s turn to cry now, and he does, silently, of course, (Dean misses his kid’s beautiful voice, but he remembers that _Sam can talk,_ he’s just forgotten _how,_ and he knows that everything is going to be okay, he understands that it’s all going to be alright, just not overnight) and Sam presses into Dean further until he’s straddling him, long moose-like limbs wrapped around Dean’s torso, his arms hugging Dean’s neck, tears staining Dean’s shirt as he trembles.

“I love you.” He whispers into Sam’s ear.

He doesn’t say _I’m in love with you,_ because Meredith, Kyle, and Megan were all still there and watching them with expressions that are half exhausted, a lot relieved, but he says I love you because he _does,_ and Sam just cries harder, shakes more, like it hurts more, but Dean knows it’s what Sam needs, needs to know that Dean is here, and he _cares_ so fucking much it _aches._

It’s breaking Dean’s heart to see Sam like this but he knows his kid has to let it all out, and Dean turns to look over his shoulder at the three who’d helped him. “Sorry,” He mouths. “I’ll call you later?” Because what Sam needed was not an audience, but his protector, and blankets, and maybe tea when Dean could untangle himself from Sam long enough to make one, and he needed reassurance and soft touches and what Sam needed was Dean.

That’s what Dean tells himself, whether it’s true or not, because Sam always needs Dean and Dean refuses to believe that will ever change. If he’s going by how tightly Sam is holding him, he’s completely correct—Dean is what he needs.

Megan and Meredith are crying, and Kyle just looks exhausted, like he’s too tired and too numb to really feel anything.

“I’m not leaving.” Kyle says stubbornly, folding his arms over his chest.

Megan opens her mouth to protest against Kyle’s claim, but the teenager silences her with a glare.

She closes her mouth.

“Leave.” Dean grits his teeth. He knows he must look anything except intimidating right now, curled around his boy like his life depended on their bodies being huddled close, tears still streaming down his face even as he speaks. “Or I will make you leave myself.”

Kyle narrows his eyes. “Sam is my friend.”

“And he’s my...” Dean hesitates. Sam was everything, there wasn’t just _one thing_ Sam was. Brother, best friend, biggest fan and worst critic, soul mate, the one person he’d die for _and_ live for. Sam is… “Sam’s mine.”

Kyle blinks like he doesn’t understand, but Dean thinks his statement makes perfect sense. Sam might be Kyle’s friend, but everything about Sam was Dean’s, Dean knew Sam better than anyone and he loved it all.

“You’re not getting rid of me.” Kyle says stubbornly, which is a huge fucking mistake, because Dean untangles Sam’s limbs from him, and stands up, approaching Kyle with a heavy air of menace. This is safe for Dean, this is routine.

Someone is making Sam uncomfortable. Dean has to get rid of that person—he has to make sure Sam is safe and happy as he can be in all situations, it’s his job.

It feels good to have that job back.

“Kyle,” Meredith says gently. “We really should give them some alone time.”

Kyle looks over his shoulder at Meredith, and then back up to Dean, swallowing enough to show he was nervous. Dean thought he had a lot of nerve making eye contact.

“ _Out.”_ He repeats, pointing to the door.

From his peripheral vision, Dean can see the rapid rise and fall of Sam’s chest as he struggles for air, fighting to remain calm.

The need to go to him is a physical itch.

Kyle opens his mouth, but closes it when Megan’s hand clamps down on his shoulder. “We’re leaving.” She assures Dean. “Kyle, come on.”

Kyle looks like leaving is the last thing he wants to do, ever, but he does eventually go.

The trio leaves, and then it’s just two broken boys finding salvation in each other, and things are how they’ve always been.

Dean approaches the bed slowly, half afraid any sudden movements are going to send Sam into a full blown panic attack, but as soon as he gets within arms reach, Sam lunges lightning fast for Dean’s hand, and pulls him down onto the bed, wrapping himself around Dean once more, resuming the previous position, shuddering and breathing hard like just those few moments when Dean was away were absolutely exhausting.

It must say something about Dean that he feels a little smug about being the one his boy needs most. Feels good to be needed again. To know he’s good for something.

Dean rocks Sam gently back and forth, holding tightly. “Sammy, you’re okay.” Dean isn’t sure how many words of comfort he even ends up uttering to his little brother before Sam stopped crying, but it was hours before his kid calmed down enough to trace little hearts on the inside of Dean’s wrist, over and over again, like he used to do when he was younger, but eventually stopped when Dean started dating and they stopped sharing a bed all the time.

Yet, when the nightmares came, or Dean returned from a hunt, or thunderstorms, they always ignored the rule John had: _if there’s two beds, you each get a separate bed, no exceptions. You can’t just waste space like that, it’s pointless_ (Secretly, Dean always wondered if John split them up because he suspected there was something more between them, or if he just wanted them to stop being so damn codependent) and they curled up together, always comforting each other, reassuring the other that everything was okay.

“Let’s lay down, okay?” Dean asks.

When Sam doesn’t try to fight it, Dean edges them down onto the bed, lying flat on his back. Theres a few inches between them now, and before he can wrap an arm around Sam’s shoulders, Sam has started to tremble and he’s crawling closer to Dean frantically, like he is in physical pain if they’re not touching.

He sprawls himself out over top of Dean, their bodies fitting together the way they were meant to, like every cavern of each other is filled by the other so that like puzzle pieces they just _fit._

“Hey, s’okay. I’m not going anywhere.” Dean murmurs, wrapping his arms around Sam. “Not anytime soon.”

_Not anytime, ever._

Sam wasn’t getting rid of Dean that easy.

Sam lifts his head and looks Dean in the eyes, and opens his mouth to speak, only no sound comes out, and Sam looks so heartbroken Dean kisses him on the tip of his nose and rolls them so Sam is beneath him, and Dean is shielding every inch of his kid with his own body, Sam is completely covered and completely _safe,_ and he wants Sam to know that.

Because maybe Dean fucked up before with his kid, by not doing all he could to protect him, but he wasn’t about to let it happen a second time. Sam _is safe._

“We’ll figure it out, just like we always do.” Dean noses at Sam’s neck, aware that he’s pushing the boundaries between brotherly and romantic, aware that the lines in their relationship are getting more and more blurred lately and knowing that he doesn’t care one bit, knowing that Sam is pulling him closer and tipping his chin back to give Dean more room, his hands holding tightly to Dean’s hair.

But Dean doesn’t do anything other than press his face there, because Sam is vulnerable right now, and so starved for touch that he isn’t in his right mind. Dean refuses to take advantage of Sam while he’s like this.

Dean can wait.

He _will_ wait.

“I’m sorry for what I did,” Dean breathes against Sam’s neck. “I shouldn’t have read you’re journal.”

Sam’s fingers tighten in Dean’s hair as if stating his forgiveness, pulling him closer when he should be pushing Dean away.

Dean smiles and brushes his lips ever so slightly against Sam’s collar bone in thanks for the apology Sam accepted. He’s aware that he’s pushing it.

He doesn’t care.

“Are you tired?” Dean asks.

Sam shakes his head.

It only makes sense, Dean supposes, that Sam will not ever want to sleep again—he was asleep for so long, dead to the world.

“Do you want to just lay here?”

Sam nods his head yes.

“Okay,” Dean murmurs.

And for now, it is.

-

Kyle taps his feet against the motel carpet.

It’s been three hours since Sam woke up.

Dean hasn’t texted saying everything is okay.

He hasn’t called.

_Why hasn’t he called?_

-

Dean’s not sure how long they stayed there, just wrapped up in each other, both wide awake, drunk on the knowledge that the other was okay, but it felt like a beautiful eternity, and although he knew it had to come to an end, it didn’t mean he wanted it to.

“Sam,” Dean whispers, breaking the silence that had befallen on the room, heavy and warm, like a blanket. “We can’t stay here all day.”

Sam snuggles closer, as if to say _actually yeah, we totally can,_ and Dean’s heart wants to explode. He’d taken for granted before how much Sam liked being near him, and now it feels like some sort of heaven sent gift. “Come on,” He encourages, starting to peel away. “We have to get up.”

He manages to free himself from Sam, but not before his kid reaches out his hand lightning fast to grab Dean’s wrist, holding tightly. “Relax,” Dean soothes, gently removing Sam’s hand. “I’m going to go get a shower, and get dressed, and then we can go out and grab something to eat, and after that…” Dean sighs, realizing just how much they really had to do. “There’s some people I want you to meet. And also, we should go see Bobby. And call dad.”

And Dean wants to know how Sam even woke himself up.

Sam tilts his head like a confused puppy, and reaches out for Dean again, but Dean doesn’t see, already turning away and heading into the shower, leaving Sam alone, once again.

-

“We should call them.” Kyle says. “Go see them. Something.”

“I think so too.” Megan says, the same time Meredith interrupts with, “No. They need time.”

Kyle doesn’t know what they need time for. He doesn’t understand anything about anything, and no one is offering to explain.

 _Time,_ Kyle thinks sadly, glancing at the clock. _How much time?_

-

When Dean re-emerges from the shower, wearing fresh clothing, his hair mostly dried off from the towel he’d used, Sam is shaking.

Worse than that, not only is Sam shaking, he’s hyperventilating, and Dean is sure that this panic attack is going to act like some sort of door between the dream world Sam was once in, and the world he’s in now, the real world, just like it did before, (at least he’s sure enough to worry) so Dean can’t waste any time if he wants his kid to stay.

Dean knows, just like he’s always known, physical touch is what brings Sam back. _Dean’s_ touch.

So he reaches out, and gathers the trembling figure that is his baby brother into his lap, and rocks him back and forth, trying to keep down his own panic that threatens to bubble up at seeing Sam like this. “Sammy, you’re fine. You’re okay, baby boy I’m right here. I’ve got you. I’m here.” Dean continues to whisper little nothings like this to Sam, until his little brother remembers how to breathe, how to halt the shivering of his bones.

Sam opens his mouth, and then his eyes fill up with tears as he remembers that here, in reality, he’s still mute.

And he can’t talk.

And its _breaking Dean’s heart._

Dean reacts quickly, though, and avoids another flurry of anxiety by reaching behind him under the pillow where he kept one of Sam’s notebooks.

Black, and plain, just the same as any of the notebooks Sam owns, and it’s empty, unlike his journal, which Dean has tucked away to avoid the temptation of reading on. He’ll give it back to Sam later, because he knows Sam will probably want to vent to absolutely no one about everything that happened.

“Write,” Dean whispers softly, handing Sam the notebook, and a pen.

The pen hits the paper like a duck to water, and Dean watches in awe the way Sam’s hand moves across the page, his eyes still wet, print a little shaky from the recent episode. Dean misses this sight just as much as he misses his kids voice.

**It feels like this is going to be fake, and I’m going to open my eyes and mom will be downstairs making pancakes and dad will be reading the newspaper and drinking coffee and you’ll be knocking on my door but it won’t be you you. **

“Sam, I’m real.” Dean promises, putting all the promise he has left in him into the words. “And I’m not going anywhere. You woke up, Sam. You’re here, with us.”

Sam shakes his head, writes something else, and then shoves the notebook at Dean timidly.

**I don’t know that for sure.**

Dean frowns at the words, wanting to convince Sam somehow that he was safe, that they woke him up.

“Does touch help?”

Sam hesitates, and then nods.

**Yes. Makes it feel real.**

Dean grimaces, knowing that nothing he says is going to convince Sam, but at least he has this, he knows that touch will comfort him. Often, it’s always been touch that grounds Sam. It’s good to know that it hasn’t changed.

“Are you okay to go get a shower by yourself?” Dean whispers, and he really, _really_ hopes Sam is, but if he says no, Dean will do whatever it takes to help his kid. He just doesn’t know how he’s going to deal with the temptation of a naked and needy  and wet Sam _right there_ in front of him, brotherly duties aside.

Sam turns bright red, writing something down and trodding off into the shower.

**I’ll be quick.**

Dean chuckles at Sam’s shyness, finding it nothing save adorable. The smile fades, though, as he realizes how much the aftermath of this is going to rock the boat.

He wonders what will happen with Megan and Kyle. He knows Megan was considering adopting Kyle, to get him away from the uncle that tells him day and day again he is to blame for the death of his parents. Dean wondered if Sam would remember Kyle fondly, or just as someone he once knew.

Jealousy spikes within him, and Dean knows it’s wrong—they went through this together, Sam and Kyle. Dean couldn’t blame them for connecting over it.

Only, he wants Sam to himself, wants to wrap his kid up in his arms and steal his kisses until they merge like two raindrops, Dean wants to promise Sam forever and _mean_ it. Dean wants to be greedy with Sam and eat up all of his time, have lazy Sunday afternoons in bed, wrapped up in each other, the outside world something that exists only when they decide to allow it.

But there was John, and he wanted Dean to hunt, and he wanted Sam to talk, and although Dean _thought_ he loved the life, he knew he loved Sam _so much more,_ and if Sam wants normal, Dean can give him that much, Dean can settle down and maybe open up a little mechanic shop with Bobby’s help and Sam can do whatever the hell he wants because he’s a genius and they have an apartment together and they’ll be friendly with the neighbours and they’ll go somewhere no one knows who they are, so they can be _together,_ together, and no one will think it’s bad, or wrong, just because they share the same last name for a reason other than marriage.

Dean wants that, so badly.

But somehow, the universe always found a way to work against the Winchesters.

-

“They haven’t called.” Kyle says flatly. “What if they up and left?”

“Seems like the sort of thing they’d do.” Megan nods thoughtfully. “Hunters are used to packing up and leaving without saying any goodbyes.”

Kyle’s panic level rises, until Megan concludes with, “But not Dean. Dean’s not like that.”

“Are you excited to meet him?” Kyle asks quietly, deciding to stop thinking about Sam leaving.

“Sam?” Megan verifies, smiling when Kyle nods. “Yes. Yeah, I am. He must be pretty extraordinary.”

“He is.” Meredith interrupts with quiet conviction, and it’s mostly unsettling because she looked intently into the palm of her hands like some sort of intricate story was unfolding there. “Sam is something special, all right. I wonder how this all will work out in the end. I can hardly wait to see.”

Kyle and Megan stare at her, and wonder about her cryptic sentence, saying absolutely nothing of everything they feel.

-

Once Sam is showered and dressed into clothing out of the duffel Dean transported from the bloody motel room, he orders a pizza and sits down on the couch, watching as Sam settles on the floor, between Dean’s legs, resting his cheek on Dean’s knee.

The silence stews between them, but it’s not comfortable, as it normally is. Dean is full of questions, and Sam knows it.

5 minutes later, Dean speaks.

“Sam,” He says in a soft voice. “You know I’m going to ask.”

Sam nods his head, and reaches for his notebook, pen tapping anxiously against the paper, until Dean starts carding his fingers through his kid’s hair soothingly. Answering these “Only tell me if you’re ready,” He warns. The last thing he wanted was to launch Sam into explaining something he wasn’t ready to deal with yet.

God knows Dean wouldn’t blame Sam. It’s barely been 5 hours. Sam is still adjusting, and he’ll probably be adjusting for a while.

“How’d you wake up?”

Dean can’t see Sam’s face, but Sam’s shoulders curve in towards his chest as if curling away from the question, although his pen glides smoothly along the lined paper, before he holds it up for Dean to read.

**I don’t know. It was a panic attack, I know that much. I was so scared—it was one of my bad ones. And then I just kept wishing that you were there to comfort me, and help me…and then all of a sudden, you were.**

Dean considers that for a moment, knowing there must be something more to it than that, because there always is, and he tells Sam as much.

“We’ll figure it out,” Dean promises. He purses his lips, thinking of another question that would be safe to ask, and how to phrase it so that it would come across as he desired.

“Do you remember someone named Kyle Tedisco?”                                                  

Sam’s shoulders perk up in an instant, and his pen is quick and excited against the page, and he practically waves his notebook in the air for Dean to see, though something about his movements was also cautious, suspicious, as if he was afraid to hear Dean elaborate on the subject but was also dying to know.

**Yes. He was in my head, he was my friend, though we only talked a few times. But if he was in my head, how do you know him? Wasn’t he just…fake?**

“He’s real.” Dean tries not to feel jealous as he sees how eager Sam is to talk about him. “Kyle Tedisco is 16 years old. He was taken by the Ghul too, and somehow, your minds managed to connect for that specific part of the dream, as if you were all living separate realities in the same place, in the same…metaphorical town.” Dean narrows his eyes, deep in though at this point. “You might remember two other girls? Kate, and Lacy?”

Sam nods, and writes, and holds it up to Dean, much slower than before.

**Are they okay? Where are they?**

“Kate and Lacy were drained by the Ghul,” Dean said, regret coloring his tone. Those girls were just children, really, innocent and undeserving of the awful fate they’d been given, and Dean will be grateful every day that Sam held off like he did, that he managed to get to him so shortly after he was taken. “Kyle survived.”

**Where’s Kyle now?**

Dean grits his teeth, but answers. “With a friend.”

Sam turns over his shoulder to cast Dean a dubious glance, scribbling something down before holding it up.

**You don’t have friends.**

Dean tries to fake being offended, but truthfully, Sam is right. Dean doesn’t trust any one, so he doesn’t have friends. He’s never really needed them—Sam has been his best friend since he was four. There’s never been anyone else, and that’s true for both of the Winchester boys. “She’s a hunter. Well—her husband is. She’s not…not really, I guess, but she knows enough about this business and she’s a good fighter. He must’ve taught her a thing or two. Her name is Megan. She’d been taken by the Ghul before and had information on how to kill them, and I contacted her to help me get to you. She’s…” Dean considers. “Really cool. You’ll love her, I’ll bet.” Because Sam loves everyone, and Megan is a genuinely awesome person.  

**Why isn’t dad here? Didn’t you tell him something had happened to me? Is he okay?**

“Yeah. He’s fine. And… I did tell him.” Dean answers, his voice showered in anger and protectiveness for Sam. “He told me to deal with it. Huge surprise, huh?” Dean shakes his head, trying to keep his hands gentle as they stroke through Sam’s hair. “But maybe we should call and tell him everything is okay.”

_Even though it’s not like it’s keeping John up at night._

Sam doesn’t write anything back to that.

But then again, Dean didn’t expect him to.

-

“That’s it. Something could be wrong.” Kyle says through clenched teeth. “ _Why_ aren’t either of you doing anything!”

Megan and Meredith exchange hesitant glances, before Meredith sighs softly, turning to Kyle. “Kyle,” She says reproachfully. “you have to understand--”

“No. I don’t have to understand _anything._ I have Dean’s number. I’m calling it.” He says, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Megan admired the fire in him, because as someone who comes from a household where he was nothing special, Kyle was a stubborn as a fool.

But she knew that if Dean decided to answer, he’d release the rage of hell upon Kyle.

Kyle picks up the phone, clicks a few buttons, and presses it to his ear, impatiently.

Meredith closes her eyes and whispers, “Nothing good can come from this.”

Megan sighs very softly, looking skyward, as if asking for help from the higher powers.

She has to admit that she knows Meredith is right.

-

When Dean’s cell starts ringing, Sam jumps about three feet into the air at the sudden disturbance to the silence they’d manifested with Dean’s fingers brushing over Sam’s scalp and Sam’s cheek resting on Dean’s knee, Dean’s legs wrapped around his kid like a cage, never letting him go anywhere—not that Sam planned on moving very far.

“Sammy, s’okay. Just my phone,” Dean’s tone is easy, but he’s furious instantly, because Sam was like melted chocolate, soft and relaxed before against Dean’s body, and now he’s stiff as a board, on guard again. It took so long to get him to calm down and just _be_ in the moment with Dean, and now he’d half to start the process all over again.

Whoever this was, it better be important.

As he fishes for his phone in his pocket, with his free hand, he laces his and Sam’s fingers together, trying to comfort his little brother in the way that works best. Trying to let Sam know that this is real.

When the caller ID says _Kyle Tedisco AKA DO NOT ANSWER,_ Dean has to bite back some very colorful curse words.

“ _What the hell_ do you _want?”_ He says in a hushed whisper, not wanting to worry Sam, but also needing to let Kyle know that this was a _bad_ time. “Are you fucking crazy?”

“Where’s Sam?” Kyle says instantly.

“Here. Where the hell else?” Dean is offended Kyle thinks Sam would be anywhere else other than glued to Dean’s side.

“How is he?” Kyle asks anxiously.

“Why do you care?” Dean snarls, moving closer to Sam as he asks.

“I want to see him.” Kyle suddenly sounds desperate. “Please.” He adds, as if in afterthought.

So the kid _does_ have manners.

“It’s not a good time.” Dean says icily.

At the commotion, Sam turns to face Dean, looking up at him fearfully with wide eyes, silently wondering what was going on, and if he should be worried.

Dean reassures him by squeezing his hand tighter.

“Look, I know that since everything you and Sam have been through together, you’re really close, but that doesn’t mean that Sam doesn’t have other people who care about him and who deserve to know if he’s alright.” Kyle says breathlessly. “I mean, I knew you were protective of him, and Meredith showed me how you looked out for him since forever, but just because--”

“ _What?”_ Dean interrupts, going stiff. “Repeat that.”

“Repeat what?”

“You said…Meredith showed you?” Dean lets go of Sam’s hand before he crushes it with the tightening of his muscles.

At the loss of contact, Sam is quick to rest his hand on Dean’s thigh, looking even more anxious than before, his lips parting like he wants to say something, before he seals them back together, swallowing.

 “I mean.” Kyle sounds nervous now, and this is how Dean knows something is wrong. “Never mind.”

“Kyle.” Dean says very slowly. “Why did it end up taking you three so long to get groceries you never even showed up with in the first place?” He doesn’t try to mask the suspicion in his tone.

Dean can here Kyle swallowing, can _sense_ how nervous he really is. “We, uh. You know.”  

“I’ll know if you’re lying.” Dean grits out, his anger increasing steadily. “And I won’t be pleased if you are.”

“I wanted Meredith to send me into Sam’s head but instead she sent me into his memories or the past or something and I saw all the ways you took care of Sam when you were younger, and she kept saying like _Dean has to be the one to bring Sam back_ and stuff like that and so I--”

“You saw our past?” Dean is furious. _Kyle saw what they went through. Kyle knows._

“I called because I wanted to see Sam.” He’s trying to change the subject.

It’s not going to work.

Dean feels violated, betrayed, getting a firsthand taste of what Sam must’ve felt like when Dean read his journal.

The past was not meant for the eyes of many spectators. It’s not supposed to be some form of entertainment. Their childhood mainly consisted of moving around from place to place, of Sam acting as the fresh meat of the school, the unmarked target, and as Dean acting as his defender, the one who was first and mostly only to jump to his defence and protect his kid the same way he continues to do now.

Whatever Meredith was thinking by showing Kyle into what happened all those years ago, the way Dean was Sam’s knight in shining flannel, Dean didn’t like it.

But he wouldn’t get into that now, not over the phone, not like this, with Sam wincing every time Dean raises his voice louder than barely above a whisper.

“You’re not seeing Sam until I say so.” Dean wants to lash out, yell and curse and really give Kyle a piece of his mind, and possibly his fist, but he knows that kind of chaos would upset Sam, so Dean does what he can to stay as calm as he can.

“You’re being ridiculous about this right now!” Kyle cries, and in the background, Dean can hear Meredith’s soft voice saying, _settle now, boy._ “You think you’re Sam’s father? Huh? You think you _own_ him? You don’t get to say what Sam does and doesn’t get to do. Maybe he wants to see me!” Kyle yells. “Have you even asked him what he wants, you overprotective dick?!”

He ignores the jibe. He knows he’s overprotective. He’s never denied that.

It’s who he _is._

He does what is needed to keep Sam out of harm’s way, and he always has.

Dean knows what Sam wants, but he asks anyway.

“Sam,” He says, his voice as soft as falling snow, completely contrasted to the razor sharp tone he’d been using just seconds before with Kyle. “Do you want to go out?”

Sam hesitates, and shakes his head. He writes; I **want to stay with you, De. Please.**

Dean tries not to be smug about that. “He doesn’t want to go anywhere, yet. And you should respect that.”

“Dean, please, if you just--”

“When Sam is ready, we’ll see you again.” Dean says, grabbing Sam’s hand once more and pulling him close. “Don’t call me anymore.”

“Fine.” Kyle spits.

“Oh, and Kyle?” Dean asks.

“ _What?”_ the other nearly growls.

“Sam’s mine.”

And with those two words hanging proud and true in the air, Sam melts against the one who’s always been there for him, and knows without a doubt that this is exactly where he was meant to be.

He is Dean’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I don't know how I feel about this chapter--I wanted more from when Sam woke up, and there definitely WILL be more in the following chapters but...I dunno. Guess I'm just disappointed in myself? Anyhoo. 
> 
> Ya'll can all visit me to yell at me at tumblr! I'm wincestplease  
> Also, if you have any suggestions for songs that possibly remind you of wincest, I'd love to hear them!  
> Thank you so much for your continued support throughout this fic! I'm so thankful for the response this verse has gotten, and I hope I can continue to get such amazing feedback as i continue to write! x


	14. Scared of What's behind you, Always Scared of What's in Front

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean stares at the road before them.
> 
> Sam is looking backwards at the road their tires had already passed.

 

**“You can't patch a wounded soul with a Band-Aid.” -Michael Connelly, _The Black Echo_**

-

“Bobby?”

“Speaking.”

“Sam’s okay.”

A pause.

“Bout time you called me. Thought you dropped off the face of the earth or somethin’.”

“Sorry. You know how things get in situations like this. I…wasn’t myself. Hardly thinking straight, been so worried.”

“That’s a piss poor excuse, boy.”

“I know.”

Another pause.

“I forgive you, though.”

“I know that, too.”

Sam glances up at Dean, a tiny smile on his face at Bobby’s voice, though his mind is somewhere else, debating the mathematics of it all, stroking his fingers along the surface of the motel’s substitute wooden table tops, back and forth, and wondering all it would take to trick him into thinking he was really here.

How is supposed to _know?_

How is Sam supposed to know everything is real when he wasn’t sure everything was fake before? What if this is just another trick? He’s going to wake up in his own mind again and he’ll be _alone,_ just a poor clone of his brother that could never really be compare to the real thing, his _real_ Dean.

“How’s he holding up?”

Dean glances at Sam.

Sam stares at the table.

Dean sighs, takes a few steps away from the table where Sam is like he doesn’t want Sam to hear, and Sam wants to whimper at the loss of closeness. He feels alone.

What if it’s not _real?_

If Dean is not around, how is he supposed to know?

“He’s been quiet.”

Bobby hesitates on the other end of the line. “I mean…isn’t he always quiet?”

Dean huffs at that, frustrated, waving his hands in the air. “Normally he tries to communicate more.” He whispers. “He’s just…I don’t know. _Distant.”_

“You have to expect that. He’s been through a lot.”

“I don’t know what to do. Megan, Kyle and Meredith want to see him.”

“And he doesn’t want to see them?”

“It’s not that, exactly.” Dean shakes his head. “I just…I don’t know how he’ll take it.”

Sam’s shivering, but he’s not cold.

He just doesn’t know if this is real.

He moves off the chair and slides pathetically down to the floor, presses his fingers like claws into the carpet, feeling numb even as he grips it hard, trying to feel _something_ that would allow him to believe he was really there.

_Is it real?_

He closes his eyes and reopens them.

“You can’t keep him locked up forever.” Bobby argues.

“I don’t _want_ to do that!” Dean cries. “I’m just worried. I want what’s best for him, and I want him to comfortable.”

“Sometimes a situation can’t always have both. Sam’s going to need to step outside of his comfort zone to overcome this, Dean.”

Dean is so far away.

How is he supposed to know if it’s real?

Sam’s breathing sounds like he’s been smoking for 50 years.

Dean opens his mouth to stay something and then hears Sam struggling for breath. “Shit,” He whispers to Bobby. “Sam!”

He lets the phone drop as he rushes over to Sam, and as soon as Dean’s bare hands cup the bare skin of Sam’s cheek, as soon as Dean’s _real_ voice washes over him, as soon as Dean shows that he cares—Sam is okay.

“Breathe for me,” Dean pleads. “Come on, Sammy, just like me.” Dean demonstrates with a deep breath in, and a long exhale.

Sam does, eventually, and the panic resides as he comes to the realization that for now, everything feels real.

A few moments pass between them, both boys struggling.

“We’re fine.” Dean says, pushing Sam’s hair out of his eyes and cupping his face, searching Sam’s eyes like he’s looking for something very important in the flecks of brown and green and gold. “We’ll figure this all out, baby boy. We’re just fine.”

Sam knows Dean means the words as a comfort, but he can’t ignore the way it sounds like Dean is trying to convince himself just as much as he is Sam.

-

Bobby stares at his phone for a long time after Dean’s end goes dead.

“Idjits.” He sighs heavily, adjusting his ratty baseball cap, his heart heavy in his chest. He turns away from the phone, and opens the left hand drawer of the old wooden desk, gadjets and things rattling, threatening to fall over as he does so.

There, in the drawer, was a picture of Sam, just 10 years old, smile as wide as the Pacific Ocean, dimples as deep as Mariana’s Trench, latched on to Dean’s back piggy back style.

Dean, who was 14 at the time, had the same sort of smile on as Sam, his freckles dotting his face in the mid July afternoon sun. The timer on the camera had gone off before Bobby really expected, so he’s looking at Sam and Dean instead of straight ahead, but he’s got a soft look in his eyes, and even a stranger could see the love harboured there for the two youngest Winchesters.

Bobby sighs again, longing for the days when to Sam, the world was his ocean and Dean was the ship that would take him anywhere. He wishes for the days when everything was simpler.

He wants Sam to be okay, so that Dean can be okay. He wants them to remember how to be okay together, because any sort of anything the boys have done it’s been through each other, and he knows that in times like these especially, they’re going to have to rely on one another in order to fix Sam.

“Idjits.” Bobby says again.

Only this time, it sounds like some sort of prayer.

-

“Okay.” Dean says finally, nodding his head. “Are you _sure_ you’re ready?”

Sam pressed his lips into a line, and nodded. _Ready._ He mouths.

“Okay.” Dean repeats, opening the door. “Then let’s go.”

Sam doesn’t make any move to go out first, and Dean stares at him for a full minute, Sam watching back with wide Bambi like eyes, until he realizes what Sam needs, and he reaches out, lacing their fingers together, and tugging gently to urge Sam the last few steps out of the threshold of the door and into the outside world.

Sam holds on so tightly to Dean’s hand that it kind of hurts—the kid’s got a good grip on him—but he doesn’t dare complain, only squeezes back just as hard.

“Sammy.” Dean tells him, just before he opens the passenger door to urge Sam inside. “Relax, okay? I’m right here.”

Sam is just starting to nod when Dean runs around the front of the car to hurry into his side, not knowing _how_ much Sam really needed physical contact. It seemed like some moments were worse than others.

Sam is holding terribly still as Dean shuts the door and slowly starts the Impala, never taking his eyes off Sam.

“Baby boy?” Dean asks. “You okay?”

Sam slides closer on the bench seat and his trembling hand finds Dean’s thigh, his fingers tapping continuously.

_Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap…_

Dean lets Sam do that for a short while, while he backs out of the parking lot on onto the street, before his hand covers Sam’s, halting the movement. “Sam. Kyle, Megan and Meredith are not going to hurt you. You know I would never put you in a situation where I thought you might be in danger, right?” Dean says carefully.

Sam swallows. Nods.

“Everything will be fine. It’s real, it’s all real, I promise.” Dean says feverishly.

Sam looks up at him, and Dean almost slams on the breaks because Sam looks fucking _wrecked,_ and Dean seriously doubts his choice to push Sam out of his _comfort zone._ He’s scared.

Ever since Sam woke up, it seems like he’s been in a constant state of panic, or close to it, like one little thing will push him over the edge just like _that_ into a full-fledged attack. It’s terrifying and upsetting to Dean, because it feels like he’s not doing his job to make Sam feel _safe._

Sam is scared, and Dean is failing him.

He pulls over to the shoulder of the road before he gets in an accident and kills them both or an innocent pedestrian getting so distracted with the true stress of this entire situation and he turns his body to face his kid.

Sam’s hand stays on his thigh, needing the connection.

“I don’t know how to help.” Dean says desperately, his hand grabbing Sam’s like he can squeeze it tight enough and make everything okay. “Sam, I don’t know how I can make it better.” _I don’t know how to fix you this time._

Because this wasn’t a scraped knee, a band aid and an ice cream cone wouldn’t fix this.

Sam, with his free hand, reaches under the seat for his notebook and pen, sprawling the notebook out on his lap and writing messily, frowning as he does so, before pausing, letting Dean read over his shoulder.

**I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be like this.**

“Sam.” Dean chokes. “You can’t apologize. You were stuck inside your own head for almost two months. It’s expected that you’re not going to wake up 100% good as new. I don’t expect that, you went through a lot, and the adjustment is going to be difficult. You shouldn’t, either. You’re going to be okay, of course. But it’s not going to happen overnight.”

**Maybe I’ll be like this forever. The clingy little brother who can’t be away from you for more than 10 minutes at a time without breaking down.**

Dean glances at his kid, sees Sam’s eyes filled with disgust directed at himself and he knows he wants to fix it, knows that he wants that look to go away and never return.

Dean leans in, he leans in so close that he watches Sammy’s disgust turn to complete shock, his hazel eyes widening and his breath catching as the realization and _fuck,_ even _hope_ comes to life in his expression.

“Let me, just...” Dean swallows, craving his like a physical ache right down to his core, leaning so much so that their breath mingles and their eyelashes brush against each other.

It wouldn’t take much, now, just a tilt of his head and a little pressure of his lips and they’d be kissing, they’d be tasting.

Dean shudders, and he _wants._

The anticipation hangs in the air like impending doom, or maybe victory, but Dean doesn’t wait to find out, because he pulls away as sharply as though he’d been burned, putting space between them, even though he grabs Sam’s hand and holds on so he knows it’s okay. Because Sam needs to know it’s okay, even if it’s anything _but_ okay. That’s the way it’s always been.

Sam’s eyes widen instantly and he starts to write, not wasting a minute.

**I don’t understand. Dean, please.**

Dean grimaces at the words. He didn’t understand either, really. He doesn’t understand a damn thing about what they have—or if they even have anything. All he knows is that he loves Sam, more than he’s sure he’ll ever love anything or anyone in his entire life, and trying to picture a life without his kid was like trying to picture the world without the moon.

And also, he really, _really_ wants to kiss him.

And do other things.

A lot of other things, that he shouldn’t be thinking about his _brother,_ let alone his underage little brother.

(Dean bets Sam would arch into every touch)

(He’d look so pretty all spread out for Dean)

(Dean wants to know what Sam looks like when he’s completely fucking wrecked)

(Dean wants to be Sam’s drug)

But he’s not thinking dirty things, or anything.

Dean doesn’t know _anything_ about the things Sam confessed with his ink to those pages and he doesn’t know anything about the way his heart flutters when Sam smiles at him and he doesn’t know how the fuck to deal with any of it, so he just sits there like an idiot, as if it was his voice that didn’t work, as if it was his tongue that refused to obey him.

Sam stares at him for a long time—maybe some sort of forever passes between the two boys, Dean couldn’t say, too busy counting the colors in Sam’s eyes and thinking about everything they could have if he wasn’t so afraid of making one mistake that could break his fragile boy forever—but eventually, the silence ends as Sam shifts, self-conscious and uncomfortable under Dean’s intense gaze, though, he shouldn’t be.

Sam has nothing to be self-conscious about. He’s the most perfect person Dean has ever been lucky enough to know.

Sam’s shoulders curl in on himself, and he sighs very softly, taking the pen, and writing.

Dean reads it in his head.

**Are we going to sit here in the car all day, or are we going to go meet some people? Just…stop staring at me. Please?**

Dean blinks at the page, and then back up to Sam, who offers a shy smile.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees dazedly. “Um. Okay. Yeah…let’s, uh. Let’s go, then.” He shakes his head at himself, and pulls back onto the road, the engine beneath them and the sky above them and the endless stretch of high way before them, leading everywhere they wanted to go.

Dean stares at the road before them.

Sam is looking backwards at the road their tires had already passed.

-

“This is it.”

Sam tilts his head thoughtfully. He looks suspicious.

**A motel.**

“Well, yes.” Dean rolls his eyes. “Good observation, Einstein. I know it’s nothing special. I just meant this is where they’re staying.”

Sam purses his lips.

**Okay. Let’s go.**

“Are you sure you’re ready to do this? I won’t be mad if you say you’re not, Sammy. I promise. We can turn around right now and go back to the motel or we can keep driving until we get to Bobby’s, or to wherever Dad is…” Dean grimaced as he realized he had no idea where his father even could be at this point, and that John has no idea if Sam is even _alive,_ let alone awake.

Then again, John never was eligible for the father of the year award and Dean really isn’t surprised.

Sam takes a deep breath.

 **I think I can do it.** He writes. **But will you stay close? I just…when you get further away it feels like**

Dean stops him before he can finish writing. “I’ll stay close.” He promises.

 As close as Sam needed, fuck whatever Meredith, Megan or Kyle thought of their relationship after this. His kid needed him, and Dean would never deny Sam anything. “If something is wrong, I need you to tell me immediately, okay?”

Sam nods.

And even though Dean has his words, and he always has had his words, and that Sam can hear just fine, he flips Sam’s hand so his kids palm is facing up, and on the inside of Sam’s wrist, where all his blue veins seemingly kiss the surface of his pale skin, Dean’s thumb draws a tiny, deliberate heart right there. _I love you._

_(So much more than I should, kid.)_

“Okay.” Dean says, breaking the tension that had acquired. “Let’s go.”

Dean steps out of the car and Sam is quick to follow, tripping when he comes around the front of the car due to hurrying so quickly, although Dean doesn’t hesitate to catch him easily, wrapping him up in his arms and hugging him tightly, his hands wrapped low around Sam’s waist, his kid slumped helplessly against him. Sam’s blushing.

It makes Dean curious. If this sort of contact makes Sammy blush, what else could get him going? What would happen if Dean’s hand slipped just a little lower—

_No._

_Stop right there._

Dean released Sam and settled for an arm wrapped around his waist as they walk, showing a sign of possession— _this boy belongs to me._

He stops thinking dirty things about his underage little brother he had in his grip, and focuses on the task at hand—get everyone to meet Sam without a meltdown.

Seemed somewhat doable.

Dean knocks once, then pauses, then knocks four times, before opening the door.

Conversation halts completely, and three pairs of eyes lock on the two Winchester boys.

“Sam.” Kyle breathes, and then suddenly, Dean is torn away from his kid, away from _his_ boy, and Kyle is embracing Sam and—

And Sam’s eyes are wide and his face is panicked and Dean can see his breathing speed up and Sam is trying to _push Kyle away…_

“Sam? What…?” Kyle asks, but he’s not letting go, he’s trying to be the one to soothe Dean’s kid, and that’s not going to happen because when Sam is like this he needs the one who’s always been there, and that’s _Dean_.

“Get off of him!” Dean roars, tearing Kyle away without bothering to try to be gentle, not caring if he hits the wall and goes unconscious or if he breaks a bone or two, caring only that Sam is safe, that he feels safe.

Sam is still breathing heavy, his eyes still stretched to twice their normal size, gaze darting around the room wildly like he’s trying to figure out where he is, or maybe how to get passed everyone to get to the exit.

Dean doesn’t waste time, because he isn’t sure he even has time to waste.

He picks Sam up just like Sam is 5, and not 15, scooping him easily into Dean’s arms like a child, and for now, Dean is big enough to still be able to do this to Sam, but Sammy’s growing fast and Dean knows that one day, he’ll surpass even his big brother.

That’s terrifying, to think that his little Sam won’t be so little anymore, that his  kid won’t be a kid but a grown up with long legs and girls will be falling all over his smile and Dean just holds on to his Sam tighter because no one is going to take Sam away from him, ever. He can’t ever let that happen.

“Sam, please. I’m sorry.” Dean says breathlessly. “Hey, Sammy. _Hey._ Look at me.” Dean orders.

Sam obliges, his eyes still wide.

“Okay. Now. Sam, it’s me. It’s Dean, and everything is okay, and you’re here with me and not anywhere else, and I promise, I _promise_ if you need me to carry you like this for the rest of your life _I will_ just for fucks sake _please_ just breathe.” Dean finishes in one breath.

Sam wraps his arms around Dean’s neck and his legs around Dean’s waist and he tucks his head against his big brothers chest, wishing he was invisible, using Dean’s scent, Dean’s arms around him and Dean’s voice in his ear as an anchor to pull himself down to where he _knows_ he is.

Sam’s shaking finger comes to trace quick letters on Dean’s chest.

 **Sorry,** Sam traces, **seeing Kyle. You weren’t there anymore. Felt like I was in my head again.**

“I figured.” Dean admitted, rocking Sam gently back in forth. “Don’t apologize. It’s okay. It’s all okay, now.”

**I embarrassed you.**

“No, you didn’t. But you did scare the shit out of me. I understand this adjustment is going to easy, Sammy. I know that. If it _was_ easy, it’d be nervous. We’ll get through this together, yeah? Just like I promised you we would. M’not going anywhere.”

Meredith and Megan turn to each other, frowning. “How is he…?” Megan makes a vague gesture, trying to ask how Sam and Dean are even having a _conversation._

Meredith smiles. “Dean and Sam have their own ways of communicating.” She explains fondly. She hasn’t known them long enough to find that out for herself, but she can see the weight of words in their eyes as they stare at each other, and she notices Sam’s finger drawing patterns she assumes are letters to form words on his chest.

They’ve adapted in a beautiful way.

Kyle looks horror stricken, absolutely terrified. “I…I’m sorry, I didn’t mean--”

“I know.” Megan silences him with a hand on his shoulder. “Calm down, Kyle. It’s okay. They’re not mad at you.”

On the contrary, Dean was _furious_ with Kyle, even offended at what Kyle had done. Throwing himself at Sam? Really? Dean didn’t like it one bit. Frankly, he wanted to pound the shit out of Kyle, but he practiced his self-control and distracted himself with the beautiful boy clinging to him like a limpet.

“Do you want to leave?” Dean whispers to Sam. “We can leave. I won’t be upset.”

Sam stills, and shakes his head.

Dean nods. “Okay. If you think you can do it, I think you can, too. Proud of you, Sammy. I’m going to be right here.”

Sam detaches himself from Dean slowly, then, much to Dean’s disappointment—he’d love to have Sam close like that all the time—and settles for tucking himself against Dean’s side instead, staring at the ground shyly, clearly embarrassed by his breakdown.

“Okay.” Dean addresses the group, meeting Meredith’s eyes first, then Megan’s, and lastly, Kyle’s, daring them all to say something about what just happened.

He hopes Kyle knows just how much Dean despises him. He hopes he knows that he _is_ to blame for Dean’s kid being scared. “Sammy, c’mere.” He grabs Sam’s wrist, and tugs it gently, guiding him toward Meredith, to introduce them two first. He’s not going to waste time standing around to contemplate all the ways Sam needs to be healed, because he’ll drive himself mad, and Sam too.

He needs to get this over with.

Sam follows behind Dean, pressed tightly to him, keeping grounded.

Dean steps beside Sam, because his little brother needs to know that Dean is not trying to protect him from Meredith, because she’s not a danger to them.  

“Sammy, this is Meredith. She’s a physic of sorts. A dream walker—she can send people into others dreams or nightmares.” Dean tilts his head at her curiously, watching the beautiful woman smile at him, her white teeth in sharp contrast with the midnight color of her skin, still mesmerized by her exotic allure. “And I think she can do a lot more, too. She’s…pretty extraordinary.”

Meredith’s smile grows into something softer, more affectionate. “It’s my pleasure to meet you in the flesh, Sam Winchester.” She says gently.

Sam smiles at her, and it’s small—hardly there, really—but it’s real, and Dean will take it. He’ll take it and be grateful.

“She’s done a lot towards getting you back, Sammy. She helped me get to you…in your head.” Dean shivered a little, remembering the fight they’d had, it being their worst. Dean made a mistake, and he knew he was going to have to make up for that mistake for a while. He can still here Sam’s perfect voice echoing in his head, screaming at him and telling him to _get out._

Sam presses closer, and looks up at Dean, his hazel eyes clouded with understanding and hesitance. Sam is remembering that fight, too. Dean can see that he regrets it, but that he also doesn’t think it was okay for Dean to read what was written there in his journal—after all, it wasn’t for his eyes.

Dean reads Sam like a book, just the same way he always has, and smiles a soft sort of smile, though it’s tainted with guilt and sadness. They’d never fought like that before. “I know, kiddo.” He sighs down at his brother. “I know.”

Meredith looks fondly between them both, like she knows exactly what just happened between them and approves of it 100 percent. Megan and Kyle both seem confused, and they share unsure glances, but keep silent about it.

“Sam, you seem like a very amazing boy to me.” Meredith says warmly. “I’m honored to have met you. You know, your brother here was going just about insane without you, from what I saw of him.”

Sam turns to Dean again, this time, he’s asking a question, eyebrows raised. _Is that true?_

“Oh please,” Dean rolls his eyes. “Don’t act so surprised. You know it wasn’t all lollipops and candy canes for me.”

Sam hugs Dean, then, hard, and Dean is surprised by a sudden armful of moose like limbs as his kid settles in and makes a home there, but his first instinct is to hold on, so he does.

Sam’s lips part, Dean can feel them against his neck and he pushes out a wheezing breath that sounds like he’s going to try to _talk,_ and for a minute Dean is absolutely terrified that Sam is going to apologize, and that his kids first word will be an apology.

Because Dean can’t imagine anything worse.

“Sam,” Dean says sharply, before Sam can try, before he learns right here and now that _he can talk even in the real world, if he just remembered how,_ because Dean is selfish and yeah, he _wants_ that for Sam, wants him to have that moment, but he doesn’t want it to be like this. He wants it to be alone, just them, where he can pin Sam down and smother him in praise and affection and maybe, if Dean is brave enough, kisses.

Dean doesn’t think Sam understands just yet that he really does have the ability to talk, because he stops trying to wheeze out words and settles for kissing Dean’s collarbone, just a peck, discreetly. Dean doesn’t care if anyone in the room saw, but he knows they didn’t.

Sam pulls back just far enough so that their position wouldn’t _exactly_ be called an embrace, but not far enough so that a piece of paper could slip between them.

“Sap.” Dean says affectionately, ruffling Sam’s hair. “You’re here now, that’s what matters.”

Sam doesn’t look like he really agrees, like he wants to say something and just tell Dean that he feels sorry for causing so much trouble, but before he can, Dean pulls him along to Megan.

He wants to get this over with so he can get Sam alone.

“This is Megan.” Dean introduces. “Megan, this is the infamous Sammy Winchester.”

Sam blushes at being called _infamous._

Dean wants to stroke the blush and coo over how adorable his baby brother is, and the urge is so strong he just barely manages to catch himself.

 _Wrong, wrong, wrong._ Dean _knows_ he shouldn’t be feeling these things but…

It doesn’t mean he’s going to just stop feeling them.

“Sam,” Megan sighs, and then a single tear rolls down her face. “It’s…and _honor_ to finally meet you.”

“I contacted Megan when I suspected that she knew something about what had taken you, because it’d taken her, too. She was rescued by a hunter, now her husband. She’s a pretty decent fighter herself, actually.” Dean says affectionately, reaching out to thumb away Megan’s tear and winks at her warmly. “She saved my life, and yours.” Dean smiles at her softly. “She’s a damn amazing woman, Sammy. Kept my head on right when I was losing my mind.”

Megan smiled at them both even through her tears, and Sam reaches out slowly, as if he’s afraid to scare her with any sudden movements, and cups her cheek with his hand. Dean can see his kids hand shaking, but Sam doesn’t pull away as soon as their skin makes contact.

Megan holds her breath, just as surprised as Dean, as Sam smiles a tiny smile at her, and mouths very deliberately so that Megan will understand, _thank you for that._

Megan nods, and Sam pulls his hand back, tucking against Dean and exhaling like it took a lot of effort to step away and interact with somebody—which Dean didn’t doubt it did.

He wraps an arm around Sam’s shoulders, hugging him sideways to keep their bodies pressed together.

“You’re welcome,” Megan sniffles. “Christ, look at me, I’m a mess.” She laughs lightly, wiping away her tears. “I don’t mean to cry—I’m just so happy you’re here, Sam. You don’t know how long I’ve waited to meet you.”

“Almost two months.” Dean agrees sadly, because it was two months since he got to see his favorite pair of hazel eyes looking up at him and that was the most impossible thing he’s ever done, and will likely ever do.

“We’re all glad you’re back.” Kyle says from across the room.

In sync, Sam and Dean both snap their heads in his direction, although Dean is sure that _his_ glare is a little more sinister than Sam’s curious gaze.

“Sam,” Dean says. “We can leave now. If you want. You don’t have to talk to him, ever.”

Sam doesn’t even turn to Dean when he shakes his head, mouthing, _stay._

Dean wants to argue and even scream, wants to tell Sam that _we need to go, now,_ but how can he when he knows his kid isn’t _really_ a kid, and can make his own decisions?

It’s not that Kyle is a bad guy, per say—he’s defiant, sure, and stubborn, but that’s nothing unlike Sam himself…Dean just _hates_ the way Kyle feels entitled to Sam, as though _he_ is the one born with the job of protecting Sam, when really, that job belongs only to Dean.

Sam approaches Kyle on his own, even stepping a foot away from Dean to move towards the boy, although his steps are slow, they’re deliberate.

Sam is walking away from Dean, and towards the one who’d sent him into a panic not even 20 minutes ago.

Sam holds his hand up timidly.

“Hi,” Kyle whispers. “I’m sorry about before.”

Sam shrugs, his way of saying it’s forgotten.

But it’s _not._

Dean is nowhere _near_ forgetting what Kyle did to his kid.

Dean would pay good money to know what was crackling in the air between them, because it wasn’t fear or tension, but it was making Dean extremely uncomfortable. Sam is watching Kyle with careful curiosity, like he’s afraid but also eager to be reunited with Kyle now that he knows he’s _alive,_ and not stuck back in his own damn head.

Kyle takes a step closer, puts his hand on Sam’s shoulder, and Sam turns to look up at him—though they’re almost the same height, Kyle has about an inch on Sam. Dean can hea his kids breath catch.

If Kyle thinks for even a second that _he_ is going to--

“I missed you. While you were out.” Kyle breathes, taking a step even closer, so that their chests are pressed together. “I’m glad you’re back.”

Megan turns her head away, giggling. “Oh my,” She wiggles her eyebrows at Meredith, but when Dean turns to look at her expression, her face is dark and disapproving of the two pressed so tightly together. Dean wonders if maybe PDA makes her uncomfortable, or if just like him, she’s getting a really, _really_ bad feeling about where this is about to go.

Dean clenches his hands into fists, muscles coiled and ready to spring. Something was raging deep in the pit of his stomach, something was telling him that this was _wrong._

Sam isn’t trying to tell Kyle anything, he isn’t saying that he wants what’s happening, but he’s also not saying he _doesn’t_ want it, and he’s not moving away.

“I just,” Kyle cups Sam’s face, and leans in. “want to do something.”

He’s giving Sam so much time to push him away but Sam just _doesn’t_ and Dean is 140% sure he’s about to puke, or pass out, or kill someone.

Sam turns around to meet Dean’s eyes, and then sticks his chin up in defiance, as if saying _hey, watch this_ , leaning back towards Kyle, bracing two hands on either side of Kyle’s chest, mouthing two little words that break Dean’s heart and unleash murderous rage and betrayal.

_Kiss me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun duhhhh!!  
> Kyle has feelings for Sam? I think we all saw that one coming...no? ;)
> 
> The song used for the chapter title is Fools Dance by Philip Philips!


	15. And I'm a Fool (For waiting so long to let you know)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam Winchester and his hazel eyes could bring the world to its knees.

**“Reason lost the battle, and all I could do was surrender and accept I was in love.”  
― Paulo Coelho,  _The Witch Of Portobello_**

**_____________________ **

 

 **Love**.

  1.     An intense feeling of deep affection.



Example: _You’re willing to die for Sam if he so much as asked because you want him to have every fucking thing in the world_

See also: **codependence**

**Jealousy**

_Adjective._

  1.     The feeling or showing of envy towards another person



Example: _Kyle is this fucking close to kissing your baby brother and you want to put a bullet through his head just for thinking he has the right to even do that_

See also: **broken heart syndrome**

Samuel Winchester was born on May 2nd, 1983 at 10:33pm when the sky was just at its most beautiful. He was a healthy 8lbs and had absolutely no medical complications at all—a bouncing baby boy, born into the seemingly perfect family containing three: Mary Winchester, John Winchester, and four year old Dean, who couldn’t wait to be a big brother.

The babysitter waits with Dean until John and Mary come home, and then John is holding a little struggling thing that’s making loud screaming noises and starting to cry, as his father says tiredly, “Dean, meet your little brother, Sam.” And then he tucks Dean’s little brother into Dean’s arms and Sam’s cries silence instantly, they just stop, and Dean is facing huge hazel eyes and little fingers and chubby cheeks with dimples and he gives Sam a smile so big it hurts his cheeks. “I’m Dean.” He introduces quietly. “I promise, Sammy, I’m going to be the best big brother ever.” Dean promised to never, ever forget to love Sam.

Maybe he kept that promise a little too close, because yeah, Dean loves his kid. Loves his kid way more than he should.

Otherwise why the hell else would he be so angry at the sight of someone else about to kiss Sam?

Dean is thinking of a way to stop this all from happening, wishing that life had a rewind button because if it did, Dean would rewind all the way back to that moment in the impala, when they’d been _so close,_ and he would’ve pulled Sam in roughly and kissed him hard until he forgot his own name, knowing that after that, Sam would never even look at someone else, knowing that he could have had Sam _right now,_ except Sam wanted this, didn’t he? Wanted Kyle.

Wanted Kyle to kiss him. After all, he’d asked for as much.

And even though Dean is the one always supporting whatever Sam wants, this he can’t condone. This, he can’t stand by and watch.

If he does nothing, if he stands there and does _nothing,_ it will haunt him until the day somebody decides to put a bullet in his sorry ass, because there is no one, _no one_ out there more perfect for Dean than Sam.

Samuel Winchester was born on May 2nd, 1983 at 10:33pm when the sky was just at its most beautiful, and he was born with the matching half to Dean’s soul.

-

Dean has to do something about this.

-

Everything is moving so slowly. Time is stopping all around Dean but he still can’t catch up.

He has to do _something._

_-_

Finally. The paralyzing of his muscles ends, and Dean takes a deep breath.

 “No!” He yells, the words ripping their way out of his lungs like they’ve been stuck down there for centuries. “Don’t!”

-

Sam steps forward, towards Kyle and his wide blue eyes, towards someone who he knows wants him.

It feels good, in a way Sam is unfamiliar with, to be wanted, even if you’re wanted by someone who doesn’t really make your heart race, not like _he_ does. Not like Dean does.

Regardless, Sam walks forward until he and Kyle are just a breath apart, and Sam stares up at Kyle when Kyle cups his face and he doesn’t pull away when Kyle presses their chests together and he doesn’t protest when Kyle says, _I just want to do something,_ even though Sam knows what that something is and his stomach is turning nervously.

Kyle is moving like he’s a video recorded in slow motion, letting Sam move back if he wants, and Sam knows that he doesn’t really want this, that Kyle really is not the one he’d rather die than be without, but he doesn’t pull away despite that fact.

Sam turns to look over his shoulder and meets Dean’s horror stricken face, sees the betrayal and the hurt in his eyes and all at once Sam makes up his mind—maybe he doesn’t want Kyle, but he knows what happens to Dean with just a little bit of prompting, Sam knows his brother right down to his jealous overprotective ways, and maybe _this,_ maybe Sam’s first kiss being with Kyle would set Dean over the edge and make him realize that maybe, just maybe, Dean can love Sam the way Sam will always love him.

It’s more than a little crazy, the plan forming in Sam’s head when he sticks up his chin and turns back towards Kyle, but something about the jealousy in Dean’s eyes and the intimate moment in the car, something about the lines in their relationship getting more and more blurred every day, makes Sam think that maybe this could work.

Dean, apparently, has other plans.

“No!” He cries out, his voice tearing through the motel room and making Sam jump, although the utter desperation in Dean’s voice to make sure Kyle stays the hell away from Sam makes him shiver in pleasure. “Don’t!”

Sam ducks his head, blushing.

He’s pretty sure it worked.

-

Kyle, Sam and Megan turn to him, surprised and Sam ducks his head, pinks cheek, which Dean didn’t understand and also thought was adorable despite the situation.

Meredith was the only one who kept watching Sam and Kyle with an intense focus, acting as though Dean’s outburst was only to be expected, and the situation was perfectly normal.

“What?” Kyle demands, his hands curling into fists defensively, as if he’s ready to prove himself worthy of Sam. Dean nearly laughs at that idea. No one, not even himself, is truly worthy of Sam, let alone this stupid teenager that doesn’t know the way Sam looks when he’s concentrating or any of Sam’s nervous habits, doesn’t know Sam at all, not the way Dean does. “Dean, what is it?”

Dean wants to growl at Kyle, actually growl, like an animal, he feels that out of control right now, his entire body shaking with the effort of self-control he is exercising not to rip Kyle’s head off then and there.

Kyle almost had Sam’s first kiss.

Kyle almost had Sam.

“Sam.” Dean barks out shortly. “Let’s go. We’re leaving.”

“What? No! You just got here.” Kyle pleads, his fingers circling Sam’s wrist half-heartedly in attempt to force him to stay, although Sam is pulling gently. “Please. Stay.”

Dean is glad to see that Sam is still willing to follow him, but the smugness drops from his face when he notices the promise of _later_ in the way Sam holds Kyle’s gaze.

Dean’s mouth is dry as he storms out of the motel room, trying to force his movements to be something less robotic, not wanting to scare Sam or send him into a panic attack, making him think that this Dean was not the real Dean, but at the same time, he couldn’t make conversation or make up an excuse for his actions.

He gets into the impala stiffly, and starts the car as Sam shuffles in beside him, his expression carefully blank.

Dean doesn’t say anything, and Sam doesn’t write anything for the entire drive back to their own motel room. Dean’s hands grip the steering wheel tightly and Sam stares out the window at the passing cars and people and stores and restaurants.

When Dean finally pulls up into the parking space outside their motel door, Sam gets out quietly, his head lowered down in shame. Dean follows, and as soon as their both inside the room, he slams the door shut, breathing hard and trying to stay in control.

Sam sighs very softly, and looks up at Dean, catches Dean’s gaze, and mouths, _you have no right to be angry. You know that._

Dean grimaces at that because Sam has never been more wrong in his entire life.  

Because _hell fucking yes_ Dean _does_ have every right to be angry because _he_ is the one that pulled Sam out of that fire and he’s the one who holds Sam after a nightmare and he _always, always, always_ looked at him like he was the center of the universe because to Dean Sam _is_ the center of his universe. No one else loves Sam the way Dean loves him. No one else will ever be able to love Sam as much as Dean because no one knows Sam as well as Dean.

Dean has a right to be angry because he wants every part of Sam.

“You were going to give away,” Dean says through clenched teeth. “what should have been _mine.”_

Sam blinks at that, looking like a deer caught in headlights, surprised and afraid as the realisation hits of what Dean is referring to, of what Dean means.

Sam parts his lips to mouth something at Dean, but Dean interrupts before he can.

“No, Sam,” Dean shakes his head roughly. “You don’t understand. You don’t know what it’s _like._ God. This is fucking insane!” He cries, throwing his hands up in the air. “I practically fucking raised you, and now look at me, wanting you like this.” He swallows, pacing back and forth, his heart racing as he tries to sort through his emotions, knowing what ultimately is going to happen, what ultimately he cannot avoid, because he is not practiced in the art of denying himself like this, he has not mastered the pain of having what you want so close and yet so far despite the fact he’s been tiptoeing around this emotion for longer than he’d care to admit.

Sam takes a step closer to Dean, and that is the first mistake.

Dean stops pacing and turns to face Sam, the abrupt silence a sharp contrast to the complete chaos that had been just seconds before.

Sam tilts his head up towards Dean, and that is the second mistake.

Dean growls in warning at Sam and grabs the front of his shirt, slamming him back against the wall, and not gently, either, snarling in his face, “Stop being a fucking tease. You don’t know, Sam, you don’t know. I can’t…I…”

Sam is shaking his head, and trying to pull Dean in closer, as if telling him that it’s okay.

But it’s _not_ fucking okay, nothing about it is okay because they’re brothers and Dean shouldn’t want this as bad as he does, he fucking _knows_ that.

“This is wrong.” Dean chokes, leaning his body against Sam’s to push him against the wall harder. “Fuck, this is so fucked up,” He was so fucked up.

Sam blinks his wide hazel eyes up at his big brother, and mouths, _I want this. Please, De,_ all the while his hands scrabbling against Dean’s chest, trying to pull him closer even though a piece of paper couldn’t slip through them.

And that is the third and final mistake.

-

Kyle stands there in shock for 10 entire minute after Dean slams the door, dragging his brother away from him.

This close.

He’d been _this close_ to just pressing his lips to Sam’s and feeling the younger boy melt against him and Kyle could take good care of Sam, and Sam would’ve let him.

Apparently, though, Dean had other plans.

Megan and Meredith are also silent for 10 minutes, surprised at Dean’s violent reaction, until Meredith disrupts the tension in the air by clearing her throat. “You cannot get between them.” She says very softly. “They’ve been raised around no one but each other. They’re relationships have only ever including each other. That sort of reaction is only to be expected.”

Megan sighs very quietly. “I’ll never understand teenagers.” She huffs, brushing off her pants, and cracking her neck. “But personally, after that shitfest, I’m up for a drink. It’s been a long ass two months, and I miss my damn husband and I can’t fucking sit her and speculate right now.” She huffs, sounding truly drained and exhausted. “Who’s coming with?”

Kyle wants to raise his hand, say, _I’m coming with you,_ because even though he’s never technically been shitfaced drunk, he thinks it’d be sort of a beautiful thing to get so tipsy you forget everything that had once been suffocating you.

But he doesn’t even twitch.

“No, thank you.” Meredith waves her hand dismissively. “Have fun, though. I’ll stay here, with the boy.”

Megan narrows her eyes at Kyle and looks like she maybe wants to say something, but refrains, shrugging. “Suit yourself,” She mumbles, and shuts the door much softer than Dean had not long ago.

“Kyle,” Meredith calls for him gently. “Are you alright?”

“I just want to be there for him.” Kyle replies numbly. “Why can’t I be the one to help him? Why can’t I be a hero?”

“Sam doesn’t need no body to save him besides Dean.” Meredith replies warmly. “You gotta understand that—and that’s _when_ the boy needs saving, which is hardly. He’s a tough child, that one. Had to grow up quick.”

“Dean is too overprotective.” Kyle says venomously. “Doesn’t he understand his brother has to have a life outside of him?”

“No,” Meredith shakes her head, watching out the window with intense focus. “He doesn’t understand that because it’s not exactly true,” She smiles softly. “Sam has always been insecure because of his disability, and Dean was the one person in his life that understood, that was always there when he needed him. Dean protected Sam, not  just from fists and feet but from the words they would say to Sam, because Dean told Sam over and over again how much he was worth, how smart and wonderful he really is and he’s going to keep doing that until Sam believes him.” Meredith finishes, her voice as quiet as a breath. “They’ve only ever had each other—they’ve been on the road their whole life, and Sam’s never had a roof and four walls to call his own, but he’s always had Dean as his constant, the one thing that would never change. I showed you their past, Kyle. I thought you understood.”

“How can I possibly understand?” Kyle’s voice breaks, as he crumples to his knees. “Why does Dean get to decide what Sam wants?”

“Dean doesn’t decide that, boy,” Meredith scolds sharply. “Don’t be a fool. Sam can damn well make his own choices. He just chooses Dean. He’ll always choose Dean.”

“Where does that put me, then?” Kyle’s voice breaks. “What am I supposed to do when all I want is to wrap Sam up and be the one he runs to when he’s upset?”

Meredith simply looks at him. “You’re supposed to be happy knowing that he already has someone who is that for him, who has always been that for him and will continue to be that.”

“Well, I can’t. I want more, I want to be more to Sam.” He grits out, ashamed at himself for feeling this strongly about someone he really hardly knows, although he’s getting the feeling that Sam has this effect on many—he triggers the instinct in people that wants to _protect._ Kyle thinks it’s a dangerous gift to have—Sam Winchester and his hazel eyes could bring the world to its knees and he’s sure that Dean would be the first one to agree. “I guess that makes me pretty selfish, huh?” He snorts, although his heart is breaking in the realization that the Winchester’s relationship is too damn codependent to include anyone else.

“No,” Meredith shakes her head, curls bouncing around her wise face. “It makes you human.”

-

It happens in slow motion, it happens the way snow drifts to the ground and finally melts into all its earlier brothers and sisters, ringing with an echo of a feeling that could only be described as _finally_.

It happens exactly as it is meant to happen.

Dean moves first, and it’s just a hand, cupping the back of Sam’s neck and then it’s his forehead, pressed to Sam’s, and his voice, whispering, “I’ve been wanting to do this for so fucking long I can’t stand it anymore,” and then there are _lips,_ and Dean has never tasted anything more perfect than Sam.

Dean can _feel_ Sam’s shock, can feel it rock through every cell in his body and Dean just presses in closer, kissing Sam’s still lips until Sam gets over the surprise and either pushes him away or pulls him in closer.

When that time finally comes, Sam settles for the latter, his hands grabbing fistfuls of Dean’s shirt to keep him from moving an inch (as if he’d ever fucking want to do that) and he tilts his chin up to get a better angle and Sam’s lips are a little unsure but Dean is determined to kiss that caution away.

Dean’s hand runs through Sam’s hair, and his other one is sliding under the hem of Sam’s shirt because he needs _skin_ or he’s going to die.

And when Dean’s tongue darts out to steal a taste of Sam's mouth, Sam does something Dean is sure neither of them expected.

He _whimpers._

With his _voice._

And Sam pulls back and his eyes get really wide and scared and he starts breathing heavily because if he can talk that means something is wrong if he can _talk_ and make _noise_ that means that this isn’t real and it means he’s not really here and that’s not really Dean and all of this is just his imagination and he’s _stupid, stupid, stupid_ for thinking Dean would ever really kiss him.

Dean can see the panic clouding his kid’s eyes and before something beautiful becomes something twisted he pulls Sam into his arms and they both sink to the floor in a heap of limbs and confusion.

Sam tries to talk again, Dean can feel the clench of his muscles and the wheezing of air through his lips though nothing comes out.

Dean is probably going to hell because he’s _glad_ no sound came out, because he just wants this moment in time to stay lovely.

“Sammy, stop. Stop, it’s real.” Dean feels awful for hiding this, for not coming clean and telling Sam the truth—that there is a such thing as _selective mutisim_ and _yeah Sammy, you can talk,_ but that is a conversation that needs to be had when he can sit Sam down when they’re both in their right minds and explain to him. “Shh. Sam, it was nothing. Nothing happened. Please. I’m here.”

Sam’s shaking his head, and he’s tapping his lips trying to remind Dean that _what the hell he just fucking whimpered_ and technically that doesn’t count as a word but it definitely involved voice, something Sam doesn’t think he has.

“Sammy, listen to me. You’re here, with me, in a shitty motel room and it’s raining outside, and you’re a mute and I’m your big brother, and it’s real.” Dean tries again, grabbing Sam’s chin and tilting it upwards so he can get a better look at his kid’s openly panicked face. “Sam, it’s real, and I’m in love with you.”

Sam’s eyes widen to be twice their normal size, and he swallows, looking like he’s scared to believe Dean, so Dean says it again. “I am,” He promises, touching their foreheads together. “Fucking hell, I’m so in love with you I feel like…like I have no control. I’m a small fucking dingy out in the middle of the ocean and you’re a tsunami, and I can’t ever keep up with all that you are or everything you’re going to be but…but I can keep my head above water, maybe, if I stop fighting the current and start riding the waves.” Dean blurts out all in one breath.

Sam closes his eyes, and tears are falling, but he’s wearing the biggest smile Dean’s ever seen and so despite the waterworks, he’s prompted to feel that this was a success, and Dean has once again managed to use his words as a needle and thread to stitch back together all that has been broken inside Sam.

“Fucking hell,” Dean groans, dropping his chin onto the top of Sam’s head. “You make me sound like some lovesick teenager.” Dean snorts, rubbing circles on Sam’s back. “Make me feel like one, too. Pathetic.”

Sam holds onto Dean and Dean holds him back.

The rain is the only sound besides their breathing, and Dean starts to wonder where he begins and where Sam ends, before he realizes he doesn’t really care.

-

After a while, Sam’s finger traces letters on Dean’s chest, and it goes to show how attuned to Sam doing this Dean really is, because he can feel how much meaning Sam is trying to put into the first five words he writes, retracing them three times, before finishing the entire sentence.

_I’m in love with you too. But you already knew that._

“’Course I knew it,” Dean teases, shutting his eyes and wondering what the hell he did to deserve a kid so warm and sweet and absolutely his. “I’m irresistible. I don’t blame you.”

 _Jerk,_ Sam traces. Dean can feel his body shake with silent laughter, feels Sam’s smile pressed against his neck.

“Bitch,” Dean says fondly, grinning twice as wide as Sam and feeling, for the first time in a very, very long time, absolutely weightless.

Nothing is perfect, not a damn thing about any of it, but finally, _finally,_ they have each other, and maybe that’s all they’ve ever really needed.

-

Outside the motel room where the two boys are embracing, no one notices the tall man with the sinister smile, watching through the window, grinning like the Cheshire cat.

No one pays attention when his slimy voice speaks into a phone, _“Sir, I’ve found him. And things are turning out better than planned.”_

No one looks twice when the man flashes his black eyes, before walking away, grinning like the cat that got the cream.

-

“I’ve reached the location,” says a voice into the other end of the phone.

Smiles.

Holds the phone closer to his ear, listening in case there is more for him to be told.

Nudges a corpse out of the way absently with his toe.

Everything has lead up to this.

John had been keeping such a close eye on his two boys, but their Daddy dearest had been slacking, leaving them alone and in the same place for too long.

“Hear that, Johnny?”

John struggles against his bindings, blood dripping from his nose and onto his lap, hatred bright as fire burning in his eyes.

“Sir, I’ve found him. And things are turning out better than planned.”

“Mm.” He hums thoughtfully into the phone, pleased at this news, watching as a woman struggles for her last breath, blood gurgling out of her slit throat, before returning his gaze to the livid father of the boy who will change everything. He offers a wide smile to John Winchester. “ _Finally.”_


	16. The Fire is Coming (So I Think We Should Run)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meredith closes her eye and a single tear rolls down her cheek. “Sammy,” She whispers, and her wise voice sounds a little broken. “Sammy is in grave danger, and he doesn’t even know it.”

**_"He is restless at night, 'cause he has horrible dreams."_ \--Daughter,  _Run_**

 

_Sam is on the floor, on his back, staring up at a vast, bright world of nothing but white—white everywhere and he can’t escape it or shut his eyes and turn away, he can do nothing but glare around everywhere, trying to get his bearings._

_He sits up, and looks around, squinting as if maybe that will help to let him see, but of course, there is nothing_ too _see. Just white. Just the blinding brightness._

_Until, out of the white, steps a figure, too blurry at first, although it soon comes into figure as a person, who kneels before him._

_Sam blinks rapidly to realize that this person is his mother, Mary Winchester, still glad in a white night gown stained with a swell of red blood, her blonde hair falling loosely around her shoulders._

_Sam doesn’t understand, because he knows that this isn’t the Mary from his dream world—that fake version of his mother didn’t have the same weight to her gaze as this one did—and he had no idea what to make of that._

_His mother was dead. She died on his first birthday. She died right in front of him._

_So why is she here, and looking so haunted?_

_“Sammy,” Mary breathes, and reaches out to him. Her hand feels real, but cold, as it strokes his cheek, and she looks like she’s just won the lottery. “My Sammy. Baby. You grew up such a good boy,” She murmurs. “Dean did a good job, didn’t he? Raised you so well, sweetie. My Sammy baby.” Her voice is so warm and so broken, like this moment is all that she’d ever been hoping for her entire life, but she knew it was going to end soon._

_Bitter sweet, and Sam didn’t understand._

_“…Mom?” He tries, but his voice doesn’t come just as never does, although Mary seems to understand what he was trying to say, and her eyes grow impossibly sadder._

_“Sweetheart,” Mary’s voice breaks, and she pets through his hair. “he took your voice, I know he did. I’m so sorry. I tried so hard to protect you, I did everything I could…but it wasn’t enough.”_

I don’t understand, _Sam mouths at her, his brows knitting together._ Am I dead?

_His mother raises her eyebrows at him. “Dean would never let that happen,” She declares. “No, you’re not dead. You’re dreaming. And…” She looks up at the white sky like maybe she sees something there, although there is only brightness when Sam follows her gaze. “My time is limited, so please, you have to believe me.”_

Believe what? _Sam asks, frowning. He’d believe anything. This all feels so_ real.

_Mary takes a deep breath, and her voice is sounding considerably weaker, and she looks behind her urgently, like there is something there for her to see, though when Sam follows her gaze there is only the same whiteness that’s everywhere in this strange place where he is. “You need to get away from where you are. They know, Sammy. They’ve found you.”_

_Confusion and panic send chills through his spine._ What? _He demands._ Who? Who’s found me?

 _Mary whimpers, curling in on herself like she’s in pain, and Sam_ wants _so badly to help her but he wouldn’t know how and he has to hear what she is going to say because it seems really fucking important. “Not…much time…you’re waking up.” She cries. “Sammy, please, tell Dean you have to go, you’ve got to hide…can’t….let them….you.”_

“Sam!”

Sam bolts up, eyes wide and breathing laboured, as he stares at Dean, who looks utterly terrified, as Dean often does when he thinks Sam is in distress.

“Sam, what? Was it a bad dream? You were shaking.” Dean says softly, eyes worried as he reaches out to stroke his hands through Sam’s hair, and down his jaw, tucking his hair behind his ears, worried little pets that somehow work to assure Dean that Sam is here, and vice versa.

Because he can do that, now. He can touch Sam, and not feel guilty about it. If he wanted to, when Sam is breathing regularly again, he could lean over and steal a kiss. He could. And that knowledge made everything seem possible.

Sam swallows, and closes his eyes, grounding himself on Dean’s welcomed touches. They feel real, so they must be real, which means that Sam is here, and that dream really just happened.

_Dean is here. That means you’re safe._

When Sam makes no move to explain his nightmare to Dean, Dean pulls him in close and reaches across to the nightstand, where he grabs a notebook and a pen, and pushes it against Sam’s chest.

Sam considers accepting them, even, and telling Dean everything the way he always had after a bad dream, though he finds himself shoving the notebook away roughly, curling in on himself instead of Dean, something about the fear in the pit of his stomach making it hard to think straight, let alone seek the comfort of someone else.

But Dean has seen this side of Sam before, seen the side of Sam that rears its ugly head when he is most afraid or self-conscious, knows that even though Sam doesn’t seek him out, it’s still physical touch that comforts him, same as always.

“Baby boy,” Dean sighs very softly--so quietly Sam is almost sure he’d imagined it—and then Dean is pulling Sam against his chest, and curling around him as if to hide him away completely by burrowing their bodies together. As if that could chase away whatever had happened. “Tell me, Sammy. I want to help.”

But Dean can’t help this time, because Sam doesn’t even know what the hell just happened. A dream, obviously. Only, it hadn’t felt like a dream, it’d felt _real._ More real than when he was trapped inside his own head, more real than any other nightmares he has.

Sam shakes his head, and feels Dean tense.

“Sam, what is it? Why won’t you tell me?”

Sam presses his lips together, and closes his eyes. He burrows into Dean like he plans on dissolving completely into his older brother, just everything at once, so he could ignore the fact that that had felt less like a nightmare, and more like his dead mother contacting him to warn him about something very, truly evil, headed their way.

-

Dean holds Sam the entire night and doesn’t get a wink of sleep, too worried contemplating what could have been so bad that Sam stayed stubbornly stiff in his embrace until sleep overtook him.

He’s seen Sam with nightmares before, it’s not rare. Actually, Sam has nightmares more often than not. Even before the Ghul, his bad dreams would be frequent, and they could get pretty graphic. He always describes them in great detail to Dean, who is _always_ there to wake up him and hold him tight, and then they curl up together and Dean usually ends up smothering his kid under his body because that’s how Sam likes to sleep when he’s most afraid—completely sheltered under the only person he can trust with his entire being.

Outside, it starts to snow.

Sam’s always liked the snow—he and Dean have made a tradition that every time the very first snow fall sticks to the ground enough to make a snow fort, they do, and the curl up in there and it’s their own little world of snow and ice and no one else is allowed in because they’d built that snowy paradise just for themselves, with benches and a roof and everything and _one day Sammy me and you are gonna have a place of our own, too. Four walls and a roof that we see every day and our own bed to fall into where no strangers have ever slept._

Dean wonders if they’ll continue the tradition this year, or if maybe Sam will forget, or not want to, or if everything is changing all at once.

He watches Sam’s form, stiff and still, eyes screwed tightly shut.

Dean can’t shake the feeling of anticipation, the ugly kind, like the silence right before the loudest clap of thunder, or the second before the plane crashes into the ocean. The last few seconds of final peace before chaos erupts and everything is ruined or changed forever.

Dean pulls Sam impossibly closer.

He shuts his own eyes, and wonders what it means to protect somebody.

-

Megan downs three shots, and then three more, until he throat is protesting too much for her to force more hard alcohol down to chase away the stresses of what’s happening.

She takes a break—albeit a short one—to breathe, and let herself wallow in self-pity, and refuses to feel guilty about it. She’s too far gone for guilt, really.

The bar around her is alive with music and lighthearted conversation. It’s not the cleanest place around, and there are some sketchy looking people in the darker corners that, if she were with Jacob, he’d have pulled her in a little closer and crossed the street to avoid them, but overall this place wasn’t bad and the drinks weren’t watered down, so it was fine by her—she had no complaints to voice.

She stares at the polished wood of the bar table, and dances her fingertips across it slowly, her red nail polish chipped and cracking, before lifting her head, asking for nothing but a beer, just so her hands weren’t empty, just so she had something to do other than sit there and wonder why the hell life doesn’t give anybody a break—not Kyle, not Dean, and certainly not Sam.

As the barista slides across her beer, a man wearing a black trench coat and a smile that reminded Megan of a serpent of some sort, slides into the bench beside her.

“Now, what’s a girl like you doing at a place like this?” The man asks, grinning his toothy grin.

“Not interested.” Megan replies shortly, not even going to entertain the fact that she should’ve let him down a little nicer. Something about him didn’t seem…right. Something was predatory about the way he moved, something was too calculating about his gaze.

“Whoa, there, Red.” the man chuckles, holding up his hands in surrender. “I haven’t got anything in mind. Just a little friendly conversation, is all.” He declares.

“Yeah, sure.” Megan snorts. “That’s what they all say.” She sips her beer, and licks her lips. “and anyway…Red? Really? Like I haven’t heard that one before.” She gestures to the flop of hair atop her head vaguely, unimpressed with his tactics. She’s seen better from men who were so drunk they couldn’t stand on their own two feet.

“Lucky guy,” The man muses, eying her up in a way that made Megan want to use the fighting techniques Jake had taught her, or maybe run a four mile minute in the opposite direction of his sharp teeth.

“Look, pal, I’ve had a shitty time these few weeks and I ain’t in the mood from some _friendly_ conversation.” She snaps. “So get lost.”

The man’s smile drops, and without it, he almost looks normal, like somebody Megan might smile at on the street or wish a good day while leaving the supermarket.

That is, until he opens his eyes a little wider, and they flash black, just for long enough Megan knows that she isn’t seeing something.

Her heart stops, and her hands instantly go clammy as she realizes what this means.

“You…you’re—”

“That’s right, sweetheart. I’m from a little further… _south_.” He explains, winking at her before he eyes return back to a more human color of cold blue. 

A demon.

Megan, although not exactly in her right mind, stiffened up her posture and clenched her jaw. “I want _nothing_ to do with you. Go to hell.”

“Mmm. Already been. S’not that lovely, this time of year, anyhow. A little…too hot, for my taste.” He winks at her. Megan’s going to be sick. And then die, probably. “But I guess it’s a good thing my fight isn’t with you, then, huh, sweetheart?  I just need some information.” The demon grinned. “Sam Winchester. What do you know about him?”

Megan instantly tensed, gritting her teeth. “Nothing. I don’t know who you’re talking about.” She lied. Despite all that Jacob has tried with her, she really is an awful liar, and the demon obvious knew this.

“Liar, liar, pants on fire, hanging off a telephone wire,” the demon said in a sing-song voice. “Well, I had a feeling you’d be stubborn. Well…the least you can do for me is give me your phone...”

Megan’s hands flew to her purse, but she’d had too much to drink, and her reflexes were average at best—the demon got there first, snatching it away and fishing through it until he finds her cellphone.

She tries to punch him, tries _really_ hard, but he’s much too prepared, dodging her hits easily and stuffing Megan’s phone into her pocket seemingly effortlessly.

“Thanks for that, Doll. GPS tracking is such a great technology. You’ve been a huge help. The best, really. Give Sam a hug for me.” He winked at her, and then was gone.

The barista is asking what the hell just happened, but Megan doesn’t answer. Or can’t.

Can’t answer, really, because she’s not too sure herself.

-

John closes his mouth when the knife carves gouges into his sides, when it cuts so deep he’s almost shocked he can’t see bone.

The demon laughs as he cuts, waiting for John to spill secrets he is going to take to the grave, no matter _what._

The demon cuts, and carves, and decorates John’s skin.

John grits his teeth against the pain.

And he doesn’t say a word.

-

Meredith snaps her head up from the hat she’d been knitting—just something to keep her  hands busy while she waited around for Megan to come back, or for Sam and Dean to call--, and stares out the window with a shocked sort of face. That’s strange to Kyle, because Meredith is always so _composed._ He’s never really seen her show such an honest emotion, blank and vulnerable. She looks terrified.

“What is it?” He asks quietly. He sort of doesn’t want to know, because if it’s making her eyes _that_ wide, it can’t be anything good, and he also isn’t really in the mood to suffocate himself with anyone else’s problems, when he can barely handle is own at the moment, but he wants to know all the same. Sort of needs to know, when it comes down it.

Meredith closes her eye and a single tear rolls down her cheek. “Sammy,” She whispers, and her wise voice sounds a little broken. “Sammy is in grave danger, and he doesn’t even know it.”

-

Kyle lets that sink in for all of 5 seconds, before he’s on his feet, grabbing Meredith by the shoulders.

“Meredith. What danger? _What danger is Sam in?”_

She just weeps, shaking and crying and Kyle doesn’t know what the hell to do with her because he just wants _answers._ Sam’s in danger. Sam needs help. Maybe Sam needs _his_ help.

“Please. Meredith, I need to know. What danger is there?”

“I can’t _see,”_ Meredith sobs. “I don’t know…but it’s bad. I just…and it’s…been building for a long time. His entire life. S’led up to this.”

Kyle swallows. “Who’s putting him in danger?”

Meredith blinks widely, and one last tear scurries down her face. “Who?” She asks, a ghost of a word, looking at something Kyle can’t see. “Everyone.”

-

Sam wakes back up slowly, peaceful at first, stretching out along Dean like a cat lounging in the afternoon sun, blinking sleepily around at his surroundings.

Dean is already awake, watching him like he’s scared he might start crying to screaming or breaking down in general.

Sam is confused by this expression for all of three seconds, before it hits him—his nightmare. The memories come flooding back and he shivers, and bolts upright, swallowing.

His mother. The warning.

 _De._ Sam mouths urgently, a sudden _itchy_ feeling under his skin, a sense of urgency the need to get _out._

Dean sits up just as fast as Sam does, and his hands flutter helpless around Sam, before settling on his kids shoulders, looking him in the eye seriously. “Sammy,” He says gently. “What is it?”

 _I remembered the nightmare._ Sam explains silently. _I’m scared._

“You don’t have to be scared.” Dean says fiercely, his grip tightening on Sam’s shoulder to the point where Dean knew it would bruise. “Please, tell me what it was about. I want to help.”

Maybe Dean could help, and maybe he couldn’t. Sam didn’t care at this point—the nagging feeling in his gut was too much. He had to tell _somebody._

He reaches for his notebook, the one he’d flung away in rejection when he’d first woken up, much too shaken to think about how to put what his nightmare had been about into words, and begins to explain with fluid movements of pen across blank lined paper.

 **It was so scary,** Sam writes quickly. **Everything was white at first—really bright light everywhere, burning my eyes even. And I was…confused. And then there was Mom. She was there, and she was exactly as she’d been right before she’d died—white nightgown, bleeding through the middle. But she didn’t seem to notice the pain. I wondered if maybe I was dead.**

Dean stiffens at that.

 **She said my name, but when I tried to respond, no sound came out. Just like reality. And then she told me that she had a message for me, but that time was limited for her and I had to listen good _._** Sam’s hands shake as he writes out this next part. **She said that _they’d found me._ She started crying, saying that she had no time and I was waking up, and she said that I have to tell you to take me away, that we had to hide. She said _he_ took my voice, De. I don’t know who _he_ is. **

Sam drops the pen and buries his face in his hands, refusing to cry but allowing the feelings of helplessness take over for just a few minutes. He deserved, after all, to indulge himself in self-pity and confusion. He had no idea what the nightmare had meant, or if it had even meant anything at all.

He doesn’t understand what his mother was trying to tell him about his voice, either, but he wanted to know _more._ Sam is the king of research, he loves to know more—he is forever curious.

Sam can’t see his brother while his eyes are squeezed shut and in the palm of his hands, but he can feel the taught pull of Dean’s muscles from where he’s hovering close to Sam.

Neither of them move or say anything for a very, very long time.

Sam wants to _run,_ feels like if he is immobile for even a second longer, he’s going to die. The feeling continues for several long minutes and Dean is frozen, getting worse and worse with every second that passes, until finally, Sam lifts his head, staring at Dean miserably.

He’s about to ask why Dean was being so quiet, maybe, or take off and never look back, just because the need to _go_ was so strong it hurt like a physical ache within the bones of his legs, when Dean’s phone rings, vibrating on the night stand, demanding attention.

Dean doesn’t look like he’s in any condition to move, so Sam stretches to pick up the phone. When people call the Winchesters, it’s not usually to see if they’d like to meet up for a coffee. When people call the Winchesters, something is _wrong,_ and someone is always hurt.

The caller ID announces it’s Megan.

Sam can’t exactly use cell phones in the way everyone else can, because he can’t talk, so he hangs up on the call, and texts Megan instead, feeling a little helpless and a lot weak that he can’t even answer a cell phone. It’s been a while since that feeling, because no one ever calls him, he doesn’t face the situation of answering phones. Now, though, the wound is fresh, although small.

_Dean says: **Hey. Cn’t talk right now, what’s up?**_

_Megan says: **it’s urgent.**_

_Dean says: **Explain???**_

_Megan says: **Just call me.**_

_Dean says: **Rlly cn’t talk. Tell me.**_

_Megan says: **It’s about Sam.**_

Dean, who’d been reading over Sam’s shoulder, snatching the phone out of Megan’s hands as quickly as possible.

He dials a number with lightning fast fingers, and presses it to his ear with hard, angry motions.

“Megan,” He says sharply. “What is it?”

“Sam’s in danger.” Megan says quietly. “Dean, he’s in real bad danger.”

Dean shudders violently. “Tell me,” he urges.

Sam can hear the conversation perfectly, but he still feels like he’s straining to make sense of it all. Danger. That was definitely a reoccurring theme right now.

“I went to a bar last night, after you and Sam left.” She says breathlessly. “I didn’t know…I was so drunk, Dean, _so drunk,_ I went home to Jake and I passed out as soon as I was in bed. He said I mumbled all night about… demons and Sam Winchester being hunted down by them.” Her voice is shaking. Her whole body is shaking, probably. “When I woke up, he asked me about it, and…I’m sober enough now that I remember it all...” Her voice breaks, finally, and she sobs, twice, two broken chokes that send ice chasing his blood through his veins.

“Megan,” Dean said slowly. “I need you to tell me everything about what happened. Slowly. From the beginning.”

Megan was still sobbing, but she was speaking clearly enough that Dean could understand her breathy coughs of words. “I was drinking, alone, at a bar not too far from the motel Kyle, Meredith and I had been staying at,” she begins. “I’d just ordered another beer when a man wearing a black coat approached me. He had such an awful smile, Dean, like a shark with a mouth full of too-white teeth.” She sniffled, and then took a breath to compose herself. “He was hitting on me at first—I guess I just thought he was harmless, another creep in a hole in the wall of a bar, nothing I couldn’t handle. I blew him off…and then he flashed black eyes at me.” She chokes. “I ain’t no damsel in distress, so I told him where to go and how to get there,” She says with forced bravado.

“He all of a sudden just asked for everything I knew about Sam Winchester. And when I told him to screw off, he grabbed my phone. I was drunk, and it happened so fast...”

Dean closes his eyes, his heart pounding a million miles a minute. “Please.” Dean chokes. “I need to know everything.”

“And then, h-he said something about how great GPS tracking is. He _used my phone to find out where Sam is._ ” Megan starting sobbing uncontrollably then, her cries loud and un-muffled, and Dean hangs up, because if Megan is telling the truth--which he didn’t doubt she was—and Sam’s dream was real (which Dean was starting to believe too) then something was building, had maybe been building for a long time, and they needed to get on the move, like, last week.

Dean climbs out of bed, not bothering to shower, heading right for the closet and ripping his clothes off the hangers, shoving them into the large duffel bag at the end of his bed.

_Keep Sam safe. Protect Sam. Always watch out for Sammy._

_Sam, Sam, Sam, SamSamSamSamSamSamSamSamSamSam—_

_Keep your kid_ safe.

Sam looks panicked, eyes wide and watering, sitting up in bed. He’s not _breathing_ right, and since when was he so pale?

Dean could count each one of his ribs.

 _What’s going on, Dean?_ He mouths. By the look in his kids eyes, Dean’s sure that Sam already knows, that he heard the phone conversation between him and Megan, and that the reality of what’s happening is setting in.

Demons want Sam, and they both know it.

 _Yeah well,_ Dean thinks sourly. _They can stick it where the sun don’t shine. Sammy’s mine. And I don’t share._

“Get your stuff packed up.” Dean barks, a little rougher than intended. He’s in full survival mode, and maybe his father’s personality has rubbed off on him in situations like this—he is loud and perhaps a little bossy. But it gets the job done. Sam listens and knows not to ask questions because Dean probably doesn’t even know the answers. “We’re going to be on the road in 5.”

Sam and Dean Winchester are officially on the run.

-

“Fredrick. I assume you’ve got something important to say? The boss is extremely busy.” In the background, the grunts of a stubborn John Winchester can be heard.

“Yessir.” The demon purrs, watching the tail lights of the 1967 Chevy Impala get further and further away. “The Winchesters are on the move.”

There’s a short pause, a rustling sound like the phone is being passed over, and then a deep, dark chuckle.

“Yes,” The Boss purrs into the phone. “Fantastic.”


	17. One Night I Will Be The Stars (Falling Where You Are)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wants to tell Dean, /we still have each other/, because that, at least, is true They still have the same thing the Winchester’s have always had—the Impala, the highway, and each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally! This chapter has taken forever. Thank you for your patience and all your support! Without a Word would NOT have gotten past 10K if not for the continued love and support you guys always show me. It's unbelievable. Thank you !

**"You are most powerful when you are most silent. People never expect silence. They expect words, motion, defense, offense, back and forth. They expect to leap into the fray. They are ready, fists up, words hanging leaping from their mouths. Silence? No.” -Alison McGhee, _All Rivers Flow to the Sea_**

-

They don’t tell anyone they’re leaving, or why, or where they’re going. They don’t tell anyone anything _._

 Not Megan, not Meredith, not Kyle, not Bobby and not even their father, who hasn’t tried to make contact with them once.

 Nothing is safe, nowhere is completely private, and they can’t trust anybody.

 They know that now.

They know that _now,_ after bloodied knuckles because Dean caught a demon watching them while they filled up on gas.

They know that now, after Dean exorcized him, after Sam and Dean drove way faster than they should have been going on back roads. They know these things _now._

Almost 5 and a half hours on the road and they were both exhausted.

Sam curls his legs up to his chest, resting his chin on his knees, and sighing for the eleventh time in half an hour. He doesn’t know where they’re going, and he didn’t ask, because he’s pretty sure Dean doesn’t know either.

They just drive, putting as much distance between them and…well, everybody and every _thing_ else. They make some stops, here and there, for food and gas, but they don’t talk to anybody, if they can help it. And they be as inconspicuous as possible.

It wasn’t as difficult as one might think. After all, they’re Winchesters.

Sam’s phone was abandoned one hundred and twenty four fast food restaurants ago. After all, isn’t that how they knew where to find them in the first place?

He wants to reach out and touch Dean, maybe lace their fingers together, anything to help him feel less alone…but something about Dean’s posture is making Sam shy in a way he normally is not around his brother. Something about the set of his jaw reminds Sam too much of a father that treats him too harshly. Dean is just like John in this moment and it’s scary to Sam—terrifying, even.

He wants to tell Dean, _we still have each other,_ because that, at least, is true They still have the same thing the Winchester’s have always had—the Impala, the highway, and each other.

 Sam wants to somehow ask without really asking if they’re okay, if _they_ are okay. Together. He wants to check and make sure that he hadn’t done anything to unintentionally fuck everything up, but he doesn’t want to be annoying.

Before, the thing between him and Dean had been invincible, had made him feel safe because what they had was bullet proof, no matter that it was new and fresh. Dean had told him that he loved him, and Sam had known it was true because Dean would never lie to him about that.

Now, everything seemed small and glass frail, vulnerable, like if Sam says the wrong thing everything will shatter into a million pieces.

He knows it’s his anxiety. He can feel it in his bones, the attack that threatened like a physical thing, right on the edge of his mind. He was walking a fine line between sane, and a gasping, crying mess.

He swallowed thickly.

Dean’s phone rings a lot, but both of them pretend like they don’t hear it. The pretend like there is no one looking for them, or wondering where they are. They pretend like no one else in the world exists, like it’s just the two of them and their enemies. It works better that way.  Sam supposes it always has.

Sam and Dean Winchester against the world.

-

Megan isn’t sure where they went, but she knows the boys went somewhere and although she is a little hurt that she wasn’t given any information, she also isn’t surprised. She knew there was danger. She knew that Dean would do anything to keep Sam away from danger.

She knows that if they find him, it will have been her fault.

Kyle’s crying, but trying his hardest not to let her see.

-

Meredith bids Megan and Kyle goodbye. Leaves them with a protection spell painted on the interior of their door. Wishes them well.

Worries, worries, worries.

 _Yes,_ she thinks idly, staring out the window of her house, her familiar pacing restlessly on the carpet at her feet, its black fur standing on end. In her mind, she sees hazel eyes and a dimpled smile, there one second, gone the next. _There is something terrifyingly beautiful inside that boy._

-

Bobby wakes up in the middle of the night suddenly, bolting upright and breathing heavily.

It hadn’t been a nightmare, frequent as they are. Just a feeling.

A terribly bad one, deep in his gut, out of nowhere.

Somewhere, somehow, the Winchesters had dug themselves into a hole 6 feet in the dirt.

He just knew it, the way Bobby knew things sometimes.

He thinks about calling them, and decides against it.

 _They’ll call,_ he thinks to himself. _They always do, damn idjits._

-

When the road before them finally seems suffocatingly long, Sam pokes Dean’s stomach almost shyly. Touch had had no barriers between them, before now, but with the pregnant tension between them, he almost refrains, until the grumbling in his stomach is so loud he can no longer ignore it.

“You’re hungry?” Dean verifies. His voice is tight. He knows that they’re going to have to stop for _real_ food soon, it’s been long enough off bags of chips and beef jerky from corner stores. But real food means restaurant, and restaurant meant interactions where Sam could get _hurt_.

Maybe a drive-thru would appear soon. That, he could handle.

Sam nods, and taps the glass window when he sees a family diner just a few meters up. He turns his pleading hazel gaze towards Dean.

A family diner. Dean’s stomach rumbles in hunger. He was starving, himself, and the promise of real, _actual_ meal was too alluring to pass up.

Also, Sam was giving him those puppy dog eyes Dean never did learn how to say no to, so he cuts over into the turning lane, and pulls into the diner, parking the impala swiftly and efficiently, before turning towards Sam with a determined glint in his eyes, as if preparing for battle and not for a family diner.

“Now, we’ve been driving for a while,” Dean said. “There might be some sort of chance that they don’t know exactly where we are.” It didn’t seem likely, and Dean was never an optimist, not like Sam has always been. But it’s better for his kid to hope, than to have the same all too real feeling deep in his gut that the ball is about to drop.

 _They,_ Sam mouths, staring at his lap with a defeated sort of look in his eyes that Dean hates because it makes his 15 year old little brother seem wise and ancient, like a war veteran instead of a teenager.

 The Winchesters didn’t even know who _they_ were, or what they wanted.

“Yes.” Dean says shortly. “They.”

And he wants so badly to kiss that lost look in Sam’s eyes away, but he knows that this is going to be confusing, and scary, and he hates it because that’s his _kid,_ that’s the one he’d do anything for, and Sam is never supposed to be scared because he’s always supposed to have Dean to make sure it’s okay.

Dean was failing Sam, and it seemed to be happening over and over and _over_ again.

“So, as usual, I’ll do the communicating,” Dean tries to joke, offering up what he hoped looked like a smile. It must not have been very convincing, because Sam doesn’t so much as blink back at him. “We’ll be quick. Keep our heads down, like usual.”

Sam nods robotically, and Dean can’t take it anymore. “Hey,” He says gently, grabbing Sam’s hand and lacing their fingers together because he can do that and doesn’t need to worry about the consequences of it. “It’s going to be okay, yeah?”

Sam doesn’t look convinced, but he’s staring at their interlocked fingers with the tiniest twitch of his lips, and _yeah,_ Dean would be brave enough to call that a smile. He feels a little glimmer of hope, a little twinge of something that is telling him he and his kid just might have a chance.

-

The hostess is a plump old lady with starlight eyes and reindeer earrings, and the entire place is decorated in loud tinsel and garland, little Santa’s everywhere, reminding Sam that Christmas is not too far away—a week or so, maybe less. It seemed to have snuck up on them from nowhere.

Dean always tries to make Christmas good, and it usually is—in their own little way—but this year, with all that has come up so suddenly, celebrating the holiday seems a luxury they won’t be able to allow themselves to indulge in.

She smiles at them when they enter, their fingers no longer interlocked, though they stand closely beside each other, and asks them how they’re doing.

Sam doesn’t even consider not trusting the lady—she seems so welcoming, so cheerful with her colorful blouse and snowy white curls, that Sam didn’t think twice about her.

Dean, on the other hand, seemed suspicious right away, replying to her with the shortest of answers. “We’re fine, thanks.” He doesn’t smile, just stares her down, and finally, the lady’s smile turns sympathetic, though it doesn’t drop. She nods at them like she just wants to bake them a pie herself and knit them warm sweaters or something, before gesturing to the left of the small diner. Sam follows, but Dean tugs on his wrist, going first keeping a hand on Sam’s sleeve to ensure he’s close behind.

Sam rolls his eyes at this but doesn’t pull back or fight it—he’s used to this behavior. He knows that Dean loves him, and doesn’t want anything to happen to him. Dean is just…very overprotective. It doesn’t mean Sam is all for being pulled around like a child, but he knows where Dean is coming from. After all, so far all the information they have is that something bad, involving demons, know where they are, and want them. They needed answers, plenty of them, but for now, a good home style meal would have to be enough.

They’re given a booth and two menus. After Dean orders them two cokes, the hostess introduced herself as Wanda and promised to return soon with drinks, and to take their order. She recommends the club sandwich and the soup of the day.

 _Dean,_ Sam mouths disapprovingly, after catching Dean glaring suspiciously at Wanda’s retreating figure and at every corner of the empty diner like it had offended him personally.

Dean clenches his jaw. “Sam, we can’t trust anybody. Even Mrs. Clause over there, and you know it.”

Sam huffs at that. He doesn’t like that plan, as much as he understands how it is necessary for their survival. Not trusting anybody has always been John’s motto, and Sam has always rebelled against 99% of the things John promotes. Not trusting anybody sounds like a pretty lonely life.

 _I wish we knew more._ He mouths quickly, not sure if he really wants Dean to catch that or not.

Dean sighs very quietly, like he doesn’t know if he wants Sam to hear him, either. “I know. We’ll get answers, soon.”

Sam didn’t really like how that promise sounded so empty, but he didn’t comment on it because really, there was no point.

They sit there for a few moments, letting the silence get pregnant between them.  Normally, companionable silence has been half the reason Sam and dean can even get along, but now the silence that hangs in the air between them is thick and heavy and it feels like it’s absolutely suffocating Sam, until finally, he can’t take it anymore. He pushes away from the table, and stands, angry and frustrated and 110% done with everything that has been piling up around them.

Dean stands too, alarmed. “Sam,” He murmurs, voice harsh but quiet, leaving no room for question. _Just like dad,_ Sam thinks to himself bitterly. “Sit down. You’re drawing attention to yourself.”

Sam doesn’t care, he just _does not care._ Let them come. Let whoever is probably watching them _right now_ come and take him away so that at least _maybe_ they could find out what was is so damn important that seemingly every demon on the planet must be watching them. He wants answers. He needs action. He’s sick of running with no end in sight.

He didn’t complain when they packed up and left without saying goodbye to Megan, Kyle and Meredith, even _if_ he was really hoping he and Kyle could be friends, if Kyle could ever forgive him for not following through with the kiss. Sam wasn’t as upset as he expected himself to be. After all, he _was_ used to this, this packing up and driving out sort of thing. It is what his entire life consisted of, after all.

Sam doesn’t sit down.

 He narrows his eyes.

  _I’m going to the bathroom. I need some air._ He mouths stubbornly, not even sure if Dean caught what he was saying. _Don’t follow me, Dean, I mean it._

And with that, he storms off, carrying his feet heavily, going against what every instinct taught him about being quiet, being light on his feet, be noticed as little as possible. He wasn’t mad at Dean—Dean did nothing wrong, really. Sam was _frustrated,_ and he was allowed to be, dammit. He had too many questions and not enough answers and none of it was fair at all.

He swung open the bathroom door and was relieved to find it completely empty—a small blessing admits all the chaos in his life currently. Sam headed for the sinks, blasting the cold water and getting a handful, splashing it in his face, over and over until the tip of his nose was icy from the spray, his mind blissfully blank.

When he raised his head again, he wasn’t alone anymore.

There were 6 black eyed demons surrounding him, wearing matching expressions of absolute blankness, and crisp suits. None of them looked familiar, none of them had been there just 5 minutes ago, and Sam hadn’t heard anything to even hint that anybody at all had entered the bathroom.

Sam made a mistake, and now he was going to have to fight his way out of it. Dread flooded his system, but it was followed by the delicious sort of readiness that comes with being angry at nothing for too long and having no output of that anger, of that frustration. Sam might be helpless against what happened to him. He was taken by the Ghul, and put in his own head against his will. He’s in love with his brother, and couldn’t _stop_ being in love with him if his life depended on it. There is _something_ building here and he doesn’t know what but at least he has this.

He still knows how to fight. He still knows how to punch and kick and choke and bite and do what he needs to get away. He can still do _this._

Sam, carefully, without giving off too much of a hint that he was doing anything at all, shifts his weight more evenly into both feet, preparing himself, a slight fighting stance as he focused on his center of gravity and bent his knees a little, braced for whatever impact may come.

Sam was ready.

“Follow us, and we won’t shoot.” One of the demons says, stepping forward. Sam watches her in the mirror, and assumes she’s the leader, only because she’s got this sort of look of power in her eyes that tells Sam she is not used to people telling her _no_. She’s got shoulder length blonde hair and thin lips. She’s young. Maybe late 20’s. In shape, too. Likely a good fighter.

Sam wonders how long that demon has possessed that body, if the human girl who fell off her bike or hit her head off the counter table or scratched too hard at chicken pox to earn that small scar on her forward was still in there somewhere, of she’d been silenced permanently.

Sam narrows his eyes, pivoting to face all of them in one sharp movement, instantly grabbing the pocket knife tucked into his boot and throwing it with a sharp flick of his wrist. It sliced cleanly through the leader’s neck with a satisfying sound that is not at all new to Sam.

He knew it wouldn’t work, he _knew,_ but it was instinct, kill the attacker, eliminate the threat. The blonde gurgles for a minute, humoring him, before grinning sheepishly and pulling it out.

Sam watches with a growing sickness as the deep wound heals itself almost instantly. When it does, she rolls her neck a few times, sighing. “I was hoping you’d make this easy.” She says grimly. “I do mean it, Sam Winchester. We _will shoot.”_

She throws the knife to the ground, goes as far as kicking it back at him, as if to say, _here, have your petty weapon. Even something that always guarantees you safety is useless against us._

Sam retrieves it, because it was a gift from Dean on his 8th birthday and it’s saved his life more times than he’d like to count, and it seems wrong for its end to be here, in the overcrowded men’s room of a family diner.

He didn’t see any guns, despite the threat that they’d shoot, and he glances around at each of them, all wearing suits, all matching to a tea.

“Not you,” The blonde rolls her eyes upon seeing his questioning look and the black in her eyes fades into a grey blue that would be pretty if the way she glared at everything wasn’t so ice cold. “We’ve got 12 armed men out there trained on your brother, however.” She walks towards him. “We’d never shoot _you,_ Sam. You’re quite important to us, you see.”

Sam takes that little bit of information and tucks it away because it sort of seems important that they want him alive.

He tightens his jaw and braces for a fight, because 12 trained demons might be a lot for anybody else but he knows Dean isn’t completely helpless, and he’ll be damned if these demons think they’re taking him away from Dean after he just got back. After things have just started to become what he’s wanted for so long.

Sam is going to fight because Dean would want him to.

“Sam.” The blonde warns, not failing to notice the steely look in his eyes. “We don’t want to hurt you.”

 _No,_ Sam thinks bitterly. _Just want to kill my brother._

Which was, whether they knew it or not, much, _much_ worse.

And then he lunges.

It seems like everything happens in slow motion, that as he runs for the door, the blonde takes forever to grab his wrist and pull him back easily, like flipping her over his shoulder to land on the ground hard takes centuries instead of mere seconds.

The other demons advance quickly, not wasting any time once they see Sam’s plan, but they all seem to be treating him so gently.

They react to his deadly strikes with carefully placed grips, using leverage instead of outright striking him, the threat of pain without any actual follow up. They don’t even grab him hard enough to bruise, but their hands are just firm enough in all the right places so that it’s difficult to struggle away without breaking his arm. It’ an interesting fighting method. Sam knows it, of course—he knows them all—but it’s never been used on him.

Anything that wants to kill Sam normally doesn’t try to be nice about it.

It’s harder to retaliate like this, but he can’t give up. He _can’t._

He fights back, a hard punch to the advancing demon’s temple means bloodied knuckles he doesn’t feel. He kicks blindly when someone grabs his wrists and pulls them behind his back, managing to kick the male where it counts, and he drops to the floor with a groan. The next is another male, launching himself at Sam much rougher than the rest, efficiently tackling him. Sam uses his knife and buries it deeply into his attacker’s side, feeling it slice cleanly through bone and muscle, and he screams in pain, rolling off of Sam and onto the floor. There is a lull of attacks, and Sam breathes, backing himself up against a wall, and meeting their now black eyes, waiting for whoever might come after him next.

He couldn’t exorcize them, because he had no words to summon, he needed to get away. He hated running away from a fight, but there was no other choice. He needed to get to Dean, and get the hell out of here.

The blonde advances first, hands raised in surrender as she walks slowly towards him. “Just come with us.” She says sharply. “And we’ll do you nor your brother any harm.”

Sam doesn’t believe it for a second.

“We don’t want to hurt you, Sam Winchester. We have great things planned for you. You’re meant for so much more than you know.”

Sam takes that and tucks it away as well. This was about him. They wanted, needed, him for something.

A male beside the blonde approaches, getting so close.

“Sam, come with us. Let us help you.”

Another, black haired and dark skinned, beautiful but wild eyed, even if they were brown instead of black. “You’re destined for so much more.”

They’re crowding him, getting so close.

“Come with us, Sam. You don’t know what you’re capable of.”

“You’re stronger than you know.”

“We’ll take you somewhere you’ll always be safe.”

“Let us help.”

Sam closes his eyes.

He can’t breathe.

“We only want to make you reach your full potential.”

He squeezes his hands into fists, and forgets that he was holding the knife by the blade. It slices through his hand as if he was made of butter, and he’s left with a deep gash that he didn’t even feel, though he was acutely aware of the red, sticky stuff that dripped down his fingertips and splattered on the floor.

“I can fix your hand,” One offered.

“We would never hurt you.”

Sam covers his ears with his hands. There’s a ringing that is just so _loud_ he can’t _breathe_ and he can’t _hear_ and his vision is going a fuzzy blue around the edges. He tilts, and falls, landing in a curled heap, his head tucked between his knees. The feeling of readiness is gone, and something is wrong.

“We just want to help.”

“There are so many of us that want you safe.”

“Please. Sam. You have to come with us.”

The blonde tilts her head. “Coming with us will result in unbelievable goodness. Trust me, Sam...”

He doesn’t trust her. Not one bit. He doesn’t trust any of them.

Two steps closer, he’s surrounded and they’re practically breathing down his neck.

He can’t do this, it’s too damn _loud,_ like high pitched feedback of a microphone, it _hurts._

 A man with a fatherly smile sticks his face right by Sam’s. “Sam,” he says warmly. “You can trust us. We were made to protect you. Don’t you want that?” His voice is sugar sweet and Sam is going to be sick.

He can’t _take_ it anymore. They’re voices keep getting muffled by the ringing and he doesn’t want to hear what they have to say anyway. Lies, lies, lies.

He squeezes his eyes more tightly shut and takes a deep breath, and he just _yells._

“ _No!”_

He yells with an actual _voice,_ what the _hell,_ and Sam _wants_ to focus his energy on that, he wants to ask questions and make demands and maybe have a full on panic attack because he _should not be talking_ if this is the real world like he _thinks_ it is, but suddenly the ringing gets so impossibly loud that Sam is confused at how his ear drums are even working at this point. He feels like they’re broken.

There’s a light then, he can see it behind his eye lids, and it’s so bright that Sam wonders if he’s dying, and maybe this is heaven, and that is the only thing he can think before the whiteness turns to black, and he goes limp.

-

Dean hears the grunts, the growls, the sound of fists connecting with heads, because he’s _right outside the bathroom door,_ and he knows there are demons in there hurting Sam, and he can tell Sam is fighting so hard but it won’t be _enough,_ because you can’t kill a demon, and Sam can’t speak to say the Latin words that could send the things back to hell where they belong.

Dean wants to help, wants to go save Sam, but he’s got his own small army of bastard demons to deal with. He’d been right about the hostess—Wanda was the demon that had first pulled a gun on him as he froze, hand on the door knob of the men’s room, and had told him with her candy apple voice, _make one move to go through that door and we’ll kill Sam without thinking twice._

He’d followed right after Sam had gotten up, something ugly and twisting in his gut telling him that that the other shoe was about to drop, and now it had.

Dean’s mind was running a thousand miles an hour—all he could think about was the fact that he was _here_ fighting off his own demons when he was supposed to be on the other side of the wooden door, fighting off the things that wanted to hurt his kid.

It didn’t take long for him to utter out an exorcism, not long at all, but long enough that by the time Dean had watched with sick satisfaction the black smoke pour from screaming mouths, he heard an awful, awful sound.

Sam, Sam _screaming._ Sam screaming _no._

Bright light shone from under the door, even that small amount too bright for Dean to not cover his eyes. Even as he shut them tight, he approached the door, kicking it open. Sam was in here. He needed to get to Sam. Help Sam. Save Sam.

The light fades within seconds, and Dean spots Sam immediately, clearly unconscious, his limbs skinny dead things at his side.

“Sammy, no,” Dean rasped, running to Sam, and pressing two fingers insistently to his pulse, which was _so_ much weaker than Dean would have liked, but it was very obviously _there,_ so Dean really couldn’t complain.

He is quick with scooping Sam into his arms. Keeps the panic to a minimum, because that is what hunters do. Find the injured, mend the wounds, and retaliate. Dean could do that. Dean had to do that.

Dean looks over his shoulder, evaluating the room one last time before they leave it behind, because when he’d entered, he’d been focused on nothing but his broken-doll little brother. Now, though…now he sees. And his eyes widen, and his heart picks up, and Dean is absolutely _terrified,_ in a way he never had been before.

He looks down at the unconscious teenager in his arms, and back to the men’s room, swallowing at what Sam had done.

He presses his lips together.

Gets a tighter grip on Sam.

And leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to try to get a chapter up before christmas that focuses more on the holiday, because lets be real, I think we /all/ need some fluff right about now, and Christmas is the fluffiest season of all!!   
> The chapter might be short (1-2K) but it will be fluffy and christmas-y, promise!   
> If you have any suggestions for the upcoming chappie, I would LOVE to hear them ! You can inbox me on tumblr (wincestplease) or leave a comment below! Thank you so much!  
> Oh, and of course, this chapters song title is by One Night by Christina Perri, as suggested by tumblr user dean-and-sam-have-the-phonebox (: You can always leave song suggestions below, it'd be awesome!  
> Thanks for your continued support. It means the WORLD to me!
> 
> Come visit me on tumblr ^.^


	18. Bruises Begin to Surface (Like Mud Beneath the Snow)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So we sing carols softly, as sweet as we know, a prayer that our burdens will lift as we go  
> like young love still waiting under mistletoe  
> we'll welcome December with tireless hope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Christmas fluff x

  **"Let our bells keep on ringing, making angels in the snow, and may the melody disarm us when the cracks begin to show." -Snow, _Sleeping at Last_**

**_-_ **

Sam sleeps. He’s been sleeping for the past 3 hours, since Dean pulled him out of the men’s room, unconscious and half dead. He’s curled up on the front bench seat of the impala, his head resting in Dean’s lap, and Dean drives one handed, stroking his fingers through the soft baby curls at the nap of Sam’s neck with the other.

 Tries his best not to think about how when he’d tried to wake Sam up, he hadn’t moved.

Tries not to think about the things he’d seen in the men’s room.

He doesn’t want to think about any of it, so he drives to the only place Dean has ever considered _home_ apart from the impala and Sam, because fuck it, he needed a break.

He passes a sign that says, _Welcome to Sioux Falls._

Bobby didn’t know they were coming, but Dean knew that he’d be welcomed with open arms, as always. Bobby would know what to do, he always has.

 Dean needed someone else to help him with this. He didn’t trust himself to know what to do to fix Sam anymore.

The garage is a beautiful place, just maybe not physically.

After all, the paint is chipping and peeling off the walls, and the cars that adorn the lawn are in no particular order, and don’t look like they are in any place to be safely drivable.  But Dean has good memories here, memories of Sammy watching cartoons curled up in Dean’s lap, memories of home cooked dinners and chocolate chip pancakes. Memories of the tiny room with the single bed that he and Dean shared, huddled up close, under piles of blankets that were all their own to use to make blanket forts out of. Bobby was so good to them, always had been, and he _was_ family to the Winchesters.

And this old place was home.

Dean parks the impala hastily, and then circles around to gather his limp kid into his arms, carrying him inside, nudging the door open with his foot. Surprisingly, it was unlocked. Dean would be worried, if he wasn’t greeted by the end of a shotgun pressing into his forehead.

“What the hell?” Dean demanded, clutching Sam closer on instinct. His heart rate doesn’t increase and his mind stays clear, though. Guns have been aimed at Dean far too long for it to get him worked up.

Bobby sighs in relief when he catches a good look at the two boys, and drops the gun immediately, placing it off to the side. “Doesn’t anybody knock these days?” He looks down at Sam. “What the hell happened?” He asks, pressing two fingers to Sam’s throat, eyes shutting when he finds a pulse. Dean can see the relief flow through him as clearly as though it were a real, physical thing. “He’s alive.” He breathes, voice weak.

Dean nods. “And he’s going to stay that way.” He declares. “Just…some things are making it a little more difficult now. Something is wrong with him.” Dean murmured, voice breaking just a little. “And I don’t know what.”

“He just suddenly passed out?” Bobby scrutinized, gesturing for Dean to come lay Sam down on the couch. He didn’t want to. Dean wanted to keep Sam in his arms, where he knew his kid would be warm and safe.

But he obliged Bobby, because that is what he came here to do.

Dean feels like a soldier, and soldiers need direction. Dean wants direction, wants to just be able to take a step back and not have the weight of the world (Sam, really, but aren’t the two terms interchangeable?) in his hands alone.

He sets Sam down, and pushes his soft hair back anxiously, not thinking too much about anything, because if he did, he was sure he’d pass out or go crazy.

“Wake up, kiddo.” Dean half murmured, half sighed, lacing their fingers together. “You’re giving me grey hairs.”

Bobby watches their hands curiously, but doesn’t comment or act too surprised. After all, haven’t they always been a little closer than normal siblings, even if they never quite crossed the boundaries they’ve crossed now?

“What happened?” Bobby asks, sounding old and very, very tired.

Dean doesn’t take his eyes off Sam as he explains in soft tones, his thumb rubbing anxious circles on the back of Sam’s hand. He leaves out a few things, like how much….more intimate…they’d gotten, and what Dean had saw upon entering the men’s room, where Sam was unconscious, a small, broken body amidst the chaos Dean remembers there.

When he’s finished, Bobby is nodding, but Dean can see weight pulling at his shoulders.

“I can wake him up, anyhow. Since…I don’t think it’s anything supernatural that’s keeping him under. Just tired, is all.” Bobby says, already across the room and into the kitchen. Dean can hear him rummaging around in the cupboards, and then the creak as the faucet is turned on. Bobby returns seconds later with a bucket of water that splashes when he walks.

Dean is about to ask if maybe he’s going to dip Sam’s hand in the water to wake him up, before bobby is pushing Dean out of the way, and dumping the half water, half ice, all over is kid.

Sam awakes with a start, coughing and sputtering, shivering instantly, and Dean, who’d barely gotten splashed, rushes to his aid.

“What the hell was that for?” Dean demands, hands fluttering over Sam—checking his vitals once more, listening to his breathing. He’s glad that Sam is awake. He’s…relieved. But Sam is shaking and he’s sopping wet and he looks confused and scared as his hazel eyes dart around wildly.

Dean hates that look. If Sam is scared that means he’s failed.

“It worked, didn’t it?” Bobby mused, unaffected by Dean’s protective rage, which he’s seen before, many a times. He simply hands Dean a towel—Dean, not Sam—and lets Dean do what he needs to do. Let’s him take care of his kid, lets him wrap Sam up and hug him tightly with the towel between them.

“Hot shower,” Bobby orders Sam gently, pointing upstairs. “I’ll make some cocoa. I’ve got to head out as soon as that’s done, but there’s Christmas movies on every TV station this time of year—might as well get into the spirit.” He half grumbles, before disappearing into the kitchen.

Sam swallows and turns to Dean, a million questions in his eyes.

“You must have been really hungry or really scared, ‘cause you passed out. I exorcized all the demons.” He lies, not flinching. It was hard to look into those innocent eyes and know that what he was saying wasn’t the _real_ story, and it has always been hard to lie to Sam…but in this case, if Sam finds out what Dean saw…it would be far from pleasant. He had to tell himself that this was for the best in order to keep from crumbling under Sam’s earnest stare.

And he believes Dean so easily, because Dean doesn’t lie to him, not to _him,_ and Sam trust his big brother so completely—Dean sees it in his eyes that he doesn’t even think to question this story, just accepts it, just knows that it must be true because Dean would never lie to him.

Dean gives Sam the minute he seems to need to ponder this, and then he shudders violently, pulling the towel tighter around himself, sighing very quietly. “Go get warmed up,” Dean murmurs softly, giving Sam a small nudge towards the staircase. “I’ll bring in some of our duffels so you can get changed into something dry.” After all, Dean suspected that Bobby planned on making this some sort of Christmas.

He wasn’t sure how he felt about that, exactly, and he knew that it was probably a bad idea to be here—if the demons were smart, they’d have people watching Bobby’s house. The Winchesters have taken up residence here often enough that it would be an obvious safe haven. He was putting Bobby in danger by being here.

But Dean, old and experienced as he may feel, is still a kid, just 19 years old. A kid who has his brother’s life in his hands, a kid who carries the burden of protecting Sam, a kid who always has. And Dean is _tired._ Fuck, he’s _exhausted._ The road has been endless and the danger immediate. So screw it—Bobby knew the risk when he didn’t kick them out, and he’s never turned the Winchesters and their dangerous burdens away before.

And besides…Sam needed familiar, for now. New roads and new diners and new people everywhere are always stressful enough for him, never mind the fact that demons seem to have taken quite the interest in him lately.

Dean heads out to the impala and grabs the duffle bags, slinging them over his shoulder. They’re pretty light, considering everything they own is in them.

He walks upstairs, taking his time to smile at the little blemishes of Bobby’s house, savouring the way the stairs creak at his weight. They didn’t do that when he was smaller, but they do now, and it’s strange that it feels like some sort of important milestone.

He drops their bags on the room they always share, and smiles softly at the brown paint, chipping off the walls. This room was _theirs,_ and Dean is willing to bet that Sam’s teddy bears would be on the top shelf of the closet, right beside Dean’s race car toys, and in the farthest corner of the closet, would be a sigil of protection he got from Bobby’s books, etched there with knife, so that Sammy wouldn’t have to worry about the monsters in the closet.

 He knows that if he were to lift up the floorboard just left to the bed, he’d find a picture of John and himself, huddled closely with a young Mary who’d be cradling a tiny baby Sam, with a gummy smile and the biggest damn dimples ever. The perfect, all American family.

He doesn’t go to the floorboard, because he doesn’t need to see the picture to remember every last detail about it.

He hears the shower, and sighs quietly to himself, more internal than anything, as he retreats downstairs, leaving Sam to collect his thoughts and warm up.

In the kitchen, Bobby stays true to his promise of hot cocoa, going as far to top it with the little marshmallows Sam loves so much. (Dean loves them too, if he’s honest).

Bobby shoves two cups at Dean, a warm, soft smile on his bearded face. “I’ve got to head out,” Bobby reminds him. “Might be a few days, not sure yet.”

Dean opens his mouth to ask where Bobby was going, or maybe why everyone leaves him. After all, hadn’t dad said the exact same thing to him? It’d been nearly a month since John had called or bothered to pick up the phone. Busy, busy, busy, Dean supposes bitterly. He was always so damn busy. He sets the hot chocolate down and prepares for a fight, bracing himself.

Bobby interrupts before he can by holding up a hand to cut Dean off. “Nowhere special. Don’t ask questions, Dean. Please.”

The desperation in Bobby’s voice is enough to make Dean hold up his hands in surrender.

“Good.  Now, I’m leaving.” Bobby pauses, glancing up at the stairs, and gets this soft, melt-your-heart-out look in his eyes. “Take care of your boy, Dean.” He orders, voice gentle as Dean had ever heard it.

Dean swallows, his heart warming at the thought of someone else recognizing that Sam was _his,_ in more ways than one.

 _His_ little brother, _his_ pain in the ass little shit, _his_ responsibility. _His_ entire fucking world.

“Always do, sir.” Dean replies, a small, crooked smile on his lips.

Bobby nods, and gives Dean a hug before he leaves. “I know, son. I know you do.”

And then he’s gone, the door closing behind him, and Dean stands there for all of 5 minutes, before he grabs the hot chocolates, and sets them down on a TV dinner stand, flicking on the TV, and surfing through channels until he finds the Grinch, which was always Sammy’s favorite growing up.

 It’s already 15 minutes in, but it’s alright because Dean’s seen the damn thing so many times he’s got it memorized line by line.

He gathers up as many blankets as he can find; thick comforters and fuzzy throws, makes a burrow for himself and clambers in, pulling the warmth up to his chin and thinking that this was perfect, all except for the fact it was missing one thing.

Sam pads downstairs barefoot not two minutes later, wearing not his own clothes, but Dean’s too-big sweatshirt and track pants, hair damp from being haphazardly towel dried.

He takes slow, quiet steps, and sits down on the opposite end of the couch, as far from Dean as he could possibly get, shoulders curled in on himself, staring at his lap. Quiet, even more so than usual.

Because maybe Sam doesn’t talk, but he’s always got a lot to say.

Dean frowns. This just won’t do.

Sam might’ve just taken a shower, but there is no way he’s _all_ the way warm yet—at least, not as warm as he could be, if he’d just scoot over 3 feet.

“Sammy, baby,” Dean croons invitingly, waggling his eyebrows and lifting up a side of his blanket den to invite Sam in, playfully. “Either we do this the hard way, or we do it the easy way.” He informs Sam in a mock serious tone. “Get the hell over here on your own, or so help me God, I will kidnap you and make you give me…” Dean paints on what he’d be proud to call his _best villain smile_ and pauses dramatically. “… _holiday cuddles.”_

Sam looks at Dean blankly, before his face breaks out into a smile, and he full on launches himself across the couch at Dean.

Dean is fast to grab his kid so Sam doesn’t fall or hurt himself in some way, twisting and adjusting smoothly, laughing and maneuvering so that he’s lying down on his back length wise on the couch, and Sam is tucked on top of him, resting perfectly against his body.

“There we go,” Dean soothes, one hand sliding up under the hem of his own sweatshirt, which, _yeah,_ looks _way_ better on Sam than it ever will on him, and splays his fingers wide against the bare skin of Sam’s back.

Sam takes to this position quite kindly, twisting a hand in Dean’s hair and nuzzling his face into Dean’s chest.

“Bobby made hot chocolate.” Dean admits, gesturing to the table where two steaming cups of cocoa await. “He’s…gone out. Don’t know where, but he’ll be back soon.”

Sam nods easily, and presses his nose into Dean’s neck.

He pauses then, looking over Dean’s head and smirking to himself as he reaches for something, settling what feels like a headband on top of Dean’s head.

“What the hell?” Dean grumbles, shaking his head, surprised when it… _jingles._ “Please tell me those aren’t…”

 _Yes,_ Sam mouths smugly, silent laughter illuminating his face. _I can’t believe Bobby has a reindeer antler headband._

Dean sighs, unable to help the smile.

If you were looking at Sam in that exact moment, you wouldn’t be able to hide a smile either. Sammy could make Mona Lisa smile.

 _You look ridiculous._ Sam tells him, flicking a bell to make it jingle.

Dean pecks the tip of Sam’s nose. “Good thing you love me anyways, right, kiddo?”

Sam pretends to contemplate this, and Dean’s fingers wiggle at his sides. Sam squirms, body shaking with laughter, hiding his face in Dean’s neck and holding tightly to fistfuls of Dean’s shirt.

Dean stops the torture of tickling, laughing along with Sam, fingers settling for rubbing soothing circles against Sam’s back, and the playful fighting turns into intimate… _being…_ within seconds.

“Warm?” Dean asks, squeezing his arms a little tighter.

Sam’s fingers trace quick letters on Dean’s chest. _Perfect._ Sam tells him.

Dean feels like he just won the lottery, because _dammit,_ he’s got everything.

A home, and hot cocoa, and blankets and blankets and his kid, safe for now, tucked up against him.

This must be what heaven feels like.

And maybe later he’ll kiss Sam hard enough to make him forget all that’s happening, make him forget his own _name._

Yeah, that sounds like a good plan if Dean’s ever had one.

So maybe they didn’t get an 8 foot tall Christmas tree adorned with lights and glass ornaments to make it beautiful and grand, but Bobby had a little rosemary plant in the corner of his desk and had taken care to place a single star on top.

And maybe they didn’t get 20 cousins running around the legs of frantic family members, but they had each other, and that was all they’d ever needed before.

And maybe their Christmas wasn’t perfect at all—it seemed the world was trying to kill Sam, and John had fallen off the face of the earth, and Megan, Meredith and Kyle were likely worried as hell but…

But that didn’t matter to Dean.

At least, it didn’t matter in this _moment._

Because there, outside the walls of the old run down home, was absolute chaos. People were dying, demons were looking for Sammy, and John was probably drowning in a bottle of whiskey...but Dean wasn’t out there, living in any of those Hells.

He was exactly where he wanted to be, comfortable and warm, the one that means everything to him tucked comfortably against him, breathing deeply.

So they didn’t get everything that most with group together with the holidays, but they had each other, and the Grinch, and blankets and cocoa…and it was perfect. It was fucking perfect.

“Merry Christmas, Sammy.” Dean whispers into Sam’s hair.

Sam’s lazy fingers write, _Merry Christmas, De,_ on Dean’s chest, before resuming their spot in his hair.

And it was.

It fucking _was._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope ya'll have a safe & happy holiday !  
> As always, come visit me on tumblr! I'm wincestplease.  
> Thanks for reading. (:  
> btw you look hella cute today god damn you're rocking that hair u go bb u.u


	19. I Don't Have a Choice But I'd Still Choose You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam smiles sheepishly, and Dean is in love with him. It’s as simple as that, for now.

Bobby drives.

He’s good at it; he’s done it all his life, like any other hunter, any other wanderer.

 His grip is firm but relaxed on the wheel of his pickup truck. There’s a gun in the center console, and holy water, rock salt and the always handy can of spray paint for devils traps in the glove box. He’s not ready, exactly. He’s not even well prepared. But on short notice, it’s the best he could do.  

About two months ago, he and John had been tackling a vamp nest a few miles out from where Sam and Dean came from—close enough that Sam and Dean could stay where they were, but far enough away that they weren’t within hunting range of the nest. John made sure of that—he was a careful planner, despite the fact that many looked at the hunger in his eyes and saw him to be a crazy man. And he loves those boys, just maybe has all the wrong ways of showing it.

Bobby turns left.

Usually, a hunt like that will take about two weeks, at most, and that’s with two experienced hunters who knew what they were doing.

Vampire nests can be tricky, and because you sort of had to get up close and personal with the thing before you could kill it, it was a time consuming process. Vampires defended their nest like a family, so you have to get each one alone, and by the time you reach the final vamp, they’re extremely pissed and ready for a fight. Expecting you. Waiting for you. Bobby’d been _tired_ of helping John: He wasn’t the man’s biggest fan.

John had been the victim of a horrible tragedy, losing Mary like that when they’d just finally built a real life for themselves. But they’d _all_ gone through something horrible. That’s why they’re hunters, because they _know_ what the supernatural could do, and nobody else would sign up for a job that required people so broken they could turn everything off and be a machine.

John had been particularly awful to work with, the past case. He hadn’t _shut up_ about Sam. Going on about how he was worried that he was going to start to become less and less independent, or how John thought he should pull him out of school so that he wouldn’t get bullied. He said that Sam starts fights between him and Dean, but that’s not right, and Bobby knows it. _John_ starts a fight with Sam, and Dean steps in because he’s Dean, and that’s always been what he does when someone has beef with Sam. When someone does anything to Sam, Dean steps in. Strangers can see that.

Bobby doesn’t like John, and he doesn’t agree with what he has to say about Sam.

Because Sam is damn well the smartest kid Bobby’s ever seen. He can make decisions quick as a whip, he can keep a level head amongst a room of angry drunks. His fingers are nimble and gentle when he patches up a wound. His shot is as accurate as Bobby’s. He’d made an excellent hunter, of course…but potential like that shouldn’t be wasted on hunting. He’s got so much going for him. He deserves _more._

Bobby grimaces.

He drives faster.

Although John may not be his favorite person, and he doesn’t agree with 90% of the shit that comes out of his mouth, he _does_ know this: John is missing, and Bobby has to find him.

John’s not in Quinn, the town where the vampire nest had been. He’s not anywhere Bobby knows of. Which can mean only one thing—he’s been taken. And by something _bad._

­­­­­­­­_

Bobby’s been gone for almost 6 hours.

It’s not that long, of course, but Dean is still chewing his fingernails with worry as he contemplates where he could have gone.

Sam has fallen asleep on his chest, snoring delicately into Dean’s neck, hands curled in tight fists, holding onto Dean’s t shirt like he’s afraid something might try to separate them.

You’d have to be pretty fucking brave and a little suicidal to try to take Dean’s kid from him.

He strokes a hand up and down Sam’s spine, slowly, feeling the bump of each vertebra as he goes, tracing invisible patterns as his mind wanders.

Bobby hadn’t specified on where he was going, or left any clues…

5 minutes tick by, and finally, Dean digs in his pocket carefully, without jostling Sam, and pulls out his cell phone, dialing Bobby’s number.

Sam shifts around a little, and nuzzles his face closer to Dean, but doesn’t wake up. Dean has to resist the urge to coo _aww_ because shit if Sam isn’t cute as hell.

Bobby answers on the third ring. “Dean, you boys okay?”

Dean closes his eyes. “Yeah, Bobby. We’re both fine. Listen, where are you? It’s been a while and I was just won--”

“Dean.” Bobby interrupts him. His voice is sharp and to the point. “If I tell you…you’ve got to promise not to tell Sam. And that you won’t to try to follow me.”

Ice chases the warm, sleepy feeling that had been previously encompassing him. If Dean would want to follow, it definitely meant something was up. He’s on high alert instantly. “Bobby, what’s going on?” He demands, trying to keep the volume of his voice in control so as not to wake his sleeping kid.

“Promise me, Dean. I don’t want to worry Sam, and the safest place for Sam is where he is, now. He’s got enough on his plate as is.” He takes a breath. “You’ve got to promise.”

Dean’s voice is a whisper as he looks down at Sam, so trusting and open in his sleep, curled around Dean, breathing deep and even. Dean felt a strong urge of protectiveness wash over him. Sam trusted him to do that, to keep him safe. Their world was chaos right now, and both of them knew it, and yet, here Sam lies, on top of him, open and exposed to the entire world, comfortable enough there to sleep, because he _knows_ that Dean will keep him safe, always. “I promise.” He says quietly.

“I’m looking for your father.” Bobby says in a rush of breath.

Dean takes a moment to process that. “The nest. In Quinn.” He says robotically. Where else would John be? Something about how Bobby said it made Dean shiver. Something about it made Dean sure there was more, and that it was bad. Bobby wouldn’t be so worried if his father really _was_ in Quinn.

“No. He’s not there. I…I don’t know where he is. My next move is going to have to be to check the hunters network and ask some civilians around the area and just see what everyone knows, what they’ve seen or heard.” He mumbles. Dean can hear the engine of Bobby’s truck in the background. He’s been driving this entire time.

“He’s missing.” Dean says dumbly. Because of course he is.

Now that he came to think of it, it all made sense. It’d been months since he’d last spoken to his father, and if things hadn’t been completely chaotic, he would have thought something of it right away, would have jumped up in three days of his dad not calling and jumped to wild conclusions, chased him down and made sure he was okay.

 But Sam had been taken, and _then_ he’d been in a coma for what felt like forever… and now the demons. There’s been no downtime to think about anything else except protecting his kid. Dean wasn’t able to afford the outside world the time of day.

John was a part of that outside world. Because Dean’s inside world was just _Sam,_ everyone else came second, everyone else was an afterthought, just as well as the sky is blue or the grass green. It’s fact, and everyone who’s been around the boys longer than 10 minutes can see that. The devotion in Dean’s eyes might as well be written on his forehead.

“Yeah.” Bobby replies gruffly. “Don’t sweat it, kid. I’m going to find your daddy. I promise.” Bobby said, in his familiar twang. It’s comforting, and Dean feels something in his chest swell with adoration. Bobby never let him down. He wouldn’t now, either. Dean had to believe that, if nothing else.

Dean shut his eyes tight. “When will you be back?”

“I don’t know.” Bobby sighs. It sounds honest. Dean imagines him taking off his familiar baseball cap and scrubbing a hand over his balding head. “Not anytime soon, I think. Whoever took him, wherever he went…it won’t be obvious. Especially if it’s linked to whatever is happening with Sam. Don’t answer the door for anybody. I left a phone number on the fridge you can call for when you need groceries and what not. _Do not leave the house,_ you hear me? Anything happens, get Sam to the panic room as soon as possible. You’ll be safe there for a little while, at least.”

“Okay.” Dean whispers, suddenly feeling very small and stupid. He was just a kid, and in that moment, he _felt_ like a kid. Felt young.

If Bobby was right, if his missing father _was_ related to the demons hunting Sam…that means they’re in more trouble than they thought.

Bobby pauses. “I love you boys. You know that?”

“I know, Bobby.” Dean laughs a little, but it sounds more terrified than humorous, even to his own ears, and he’d be embarrassed about it if he could afford the emotion to spare. “Sam does too. And…and we love you.” He’s ashamed of the way his voice breaks into something that resembles a sob. “A lot.”

“Yeah.” Bobby says, and then, softer, “Yeah.”

He hangs up, and Dean is alone with Sam sprawled out on his chest. It’s not really a bad place to be, but the conversation has left him guilty and worried.

He sets the phone down with shaking fingers, and resumes to the petting and stroking through Sam’s hair, down his spine, along his arms. Dean’s fingers tremble. He searches for normal. For comfort.

He closes his eyes, and a single, betraying tear rolls down his face. He doesn’t wipe it away, because he’d rather be touching Sam, and no one is around to see, anyway. It feels…oddly good…to cry. Dean needs it, he thinks distantly. To let go and not have anyone see.

 _I’m so scared,_ he thinks to himself, and realizes only a heartbeat later that he’d actually said the words out loud. “Sammy. I’m fucking terrified.” Deans bottom lip trembles, and he bites down on it, hard, willing himself to be quiet enough so that he wouldn’t wake Sam. His antler headband had slipped off long ago, and they rest on the floor. He glances sidelong at them, longing for the lightheartedness he’d felt when they’d been slipped onto his head.

“Dad isn’t supposed to…he’s supposed to be the strongest man I know.” Dean supposes he’s always thought of John as invincible, the way every kid thinks of their dad. Immortal. Nothing could take him down. Hurt him, sure. But…he was supposed to be around forever. He could kill anything, could _do_ anything. He was supposed to be _superman._ “But now…now I don’t know. Everything is upside down and I’m supposed to keep you safe but I can’t even tell if I’m pulling us towards the surface or deeper into the ocean.” He half chokes, though his voice is still as soft as the whisper of fabric against skin.

Dean feels weak, and that is the most awful thing Dean can ever be, second only to without Sam.

Helpless, just like he felt with Sam lying on that motel bed, motionless, fighting a losing battle in his own head, a battle Dean couldn’t be a part of, couldn’t save him from. He wanted to curl up in a ball and hide until it was over. He was a coward, he was a _child._

He shudders violently at that, in disgust at himself. When had he become so easily defeated? His spirit was supposed to be made out of steel. He was supposed to be a solider. He was supposed to be unbroken.

Sam smooth face contorts into a gentle frown as he curls closer to Dean, as if even in sleep he sense Dean’s despair, and wants to comfort him with the closeness of his body.

 Dean feels something in him harden at that, born out of fierce love and protective instinct, and it continues to grow icy cold, until he can _feel_ it like a physical thing…the drive, the need, the _ache_ to continue to fighting against whatever came at them, whatever came at _Sam_.

Maybe everyone _would_ leave Dean. But he had Sam. And he was going to fight to keep him with all he had.

He wipes at his tears until his eyes are dry.

Weakness was no longer a word Dean comprehended. It was not an option.

He hugs Sam tighter, kissing the top of his head, lips lingering for a second longer than they really needed to.

This was _war._

-

“Where _is he,_ John?”

Silence.

“You’re going to break eventually.”

Footsteps, circling, like a shark getting ready to devour its prey.

“And if you don’t, _we_ will break _you.”_

The sound of a bone snapping. A faint grunt of pain, but no other acknowledgement.

A pregnant pause.

“ _Dammit!”_ it seethed, finally. “You will _fucking_ tell us. We’ll kill you, and then we’ll kill Dean, just like we killed your blonde whore!”

John smiles at it through bloodied teeth.

-

Megan is curled up against her husband’s side, and she doesn’t realize she’s crying, until he asks her why she is.

Surprised at herself, she wipes angrily at them. She’s never cried as much in her life as she has in the past three months she’s been working with the Winchesters.

 “Sorry.” She mutters, and Jacob sighs, hugging her a little tighter. He understands that this is something serious—his wife is made of iron on her exterior, and it’s rare that she cries even in front of him. “I’m just worried about the Winchester’s.” It’s a name that’s come up quite often in their house, these days. Sam and Dean danced behind her eyelids, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that something _bad_ was happening. Not just to them, but to them all. Something _huge_. She _knows_ hunters pick up and leave without warning all the time, but from Dean, she’d expect _something…_ a hint. A note. He wouldn’t just take Sam and run.

But there’d been nothing, nothing except their absence and no trail to follow. Her and Jacob had both tried. They were good, the Winchesters, good at not being found, never mind how good Megan was at finding.

“You just have to trust that they’ll be okay.” Her husband, Jacob, murmurs. “Maybe they’ll reach out to you again. They’ll probably need time.”

Megan sighs. It’s not likely. If Dean _did_ leave without warning, it was for a reason. A good one.

“Kyle’s been worried, too.” She says into his chest, and it’s Jacob’s turn to sigh.

“Yes. He has. His friend left without an explanation. It only makes sense. But he’ll be okay, Meggie.” His voice is solid and soothing, and so is his body next to hers. His leg, which is no longer in a cast, is intertwined with hers. “He’s been handling it extremely well.” They were still working on the adoption papers, but Kyle was a nice fit to their little family of two—and although he’d been sort of quiet, he got along really well with Jacob, looked up to him, even. He had his own bedroom that Megan promised to decorate however he wished once things settled down a little, whatever that meant.

Kyle hasn’t been in contact with his uncle, but Megan knew that was a conversation they’d have to have, together, considering his uncle had legal custody over Kyle.

“I think I’ll go up to Omen’s tomorrow.” She says, half to herself. Omens is a little bar, out of the way of most of the somewhat bustling downtown of their small city. It was a gathering place for hunters, to drink away their problems and network, share information they’d heard and get a second opinion on hunts.

Jacob hums. “Oh yeah?” He asks. “You…you think you want to track these boys down? Because if you do, you know I’m in.” Jacob, bless his soul, would follow his wife barefoot over barbed wire, would run after her in the pits of hell with broken legs. They’d already tried to see where the boys had gone, but she knew what Jacob meant, none the less. His question was, _do you want to continue to look for them—really look for them?_

Megan shakes her head, biting her lip. “I just want to know if anyone has heard anything.” She says quietly. “I think it’ll help me just to know. If they left, Dean had a reason. They needed to be away from us for a reason.” She frowns, and he smooths out the line it creates between her delicate brow.

“You worry too much.” He tells her, and turns off the light.

She doesn’t sleep.

-

Sam wakes up with a jolt, startled out of sleep by nothing particular.

Beneath him, Dean is watching with an amused expression. The first thing he says is, “You should drink some water.”

Sam frowns at that, tilting his head in question as he rubs the sleep from his eyes. It doesn’t make sense. Sam drinks plenty of water. He is an extremely hydrated teenage boy. Dean has no right to be scolding him about his h20 habits.

“You know, since you _drooled_ your entire body’s liquid content all over me.” He chuckles, staring pointedly at the evidence, which is undeniably a large, wet drool spot on the center of Dean’s shirt.

Sam smiles sheepishly, and Dean is in love with him. It’s as simple as that, for now.

 _Bobby?_ Sam mouths, after a moment of comfortable silence between them. Eternally curious, Sam was.

“He won’t be back for a while.” Dean tells Sam, keeping his voice even as he can. “I don’t know where he went, or what he’s doing.” It’s a lie, of course it is, but Bobby made  him promise and damn if he didn’t agree that Sam had enough on his plate. “He wouldn’t tell me anything, other than he’d be gone for some time.”

 _Sorry I slept so long,_ Sam mouths, yawning, pushing himself up off Dean’s chest to sit up. He pokes Dean’s stomach.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean grumbles, relieved that Sam seemed satisfied with that answer. “You’re _always_ hungry.” Growing teenagers and their bottomless pits of stomachs. _Sigh._

Sam grins at him, and climbs off, offering out his hand to Dean, which Dean accepts, of course. Any excuse to touch more of Sam.

 He loves Sam’s hands, smallish with long fingers and prominent knuckles. His hands are soft, much softer than his own, not yet calloused from years of handling weapons and fighting…just his fingers. The tips of his fingers are rough from the amount of times he’s had to sew up Dean or John after they got hurt on a hunt, but his palms are flawless and unscathed.

Sam pulls Dean up deftly, and squirms a little, grinning, as Dean tickles him at his sides, wrapping Sam up from behind.

Sam rolls his eyes, but when Dean presses their cheeks together, he can feel that his kids are extra warm from a blush and it makes his smile grow. “On ward!” He demands, grinning into Sam’s hair, resting his chin on the top of Sam’s head as they somehow manage to shuffle into Bobby’s kitchen without detaching.

Once they reach the desired destination, Sam shuffles them over to the fridge, opening it and peering inside with interest. There’s beer. Lots of that. A few other things, too. Some vegetables, left overs….bacon, eggs. Sam was sure he could make do with what they had, for now. Idly, he wondered _how long_ they’d have to stay here. He frowned.

Dean steps around Sam when he feels Sam sort of sag away from him, and he catches his shoulders. “Sammy,” He says gently. “Quit frownin’. You’ll give yourself wrinkles.” He chides playfully. His lips are smiling, but his eyes are worried.

Sam casts his gaze to the side, mouthing, _everything is gone to shit._

“I agree.” Dean announces loudly, pulling Sam in against his chest. “Everything has, indeed, gone to shit, and there might be an army of demons out to get us. Well, you, but they aren’t getting you with me, so I’m just going to say _us_ for now…” Dean cups the back of his head, making sure Sam is as pressed against him as he can be. “And even though everything is fucking chaos, we’ve got bacon and eggs and bread to toast and we’re gonna make one bad ass breakfast for dinner, and we’re going to just take it day by day, okay?”

Sam pulls back enough to look at Dean, _really_ look at him, takes the time to look at his blazing, determined green eyes and the spotting freckles on his nose and the fierce set of his lips and his carved jaw and messy hair and _god,_ Sam loves him. He loves Dean so completely that he doesn’t remember what it was like to not feel this way. He can’t imagine it.

 _Okay,_ Sam agrees.

Sam surprises Dean by abruptly twisting in his arms and stretching up onto the balls of his toes to press a hard kiss to Dean’s lips, fast like a striking cobra. His fingers, the ones that Dean _loves,_ knot themselves in Dean’s hair.

“Whoa, there,” Dean gasped against Sam’s lips, when he pulled away to breathe. Sam huffed impatiently and chased after Dean’s mouth again, licking inside of it with that curious tongue of his. Sam loves him, loves him, _loves_ him.

The hand that isn’t grabbing at Dean’s hair slides down his chest, and eagerly traces letters there, in jerky, hurried movements that Sam can imagine are likely hard to understand. Being able to speak would be helpful in this moment, if he wasn’t already so sure that even if he _did_ have a voice, he’d be unable to use it in this moment, with Dean _everywhere,_ surrounding him from all angles.

Dean has only a second to try to decipher what it meant. “Sam, what… _catch_ _me_?” He repeats, just before Sam wraps his skinny arms around Dean’s neck and jumps to twist his legs around Dean’s hips in one agile movement.

And yeah, Dean caught him, like he even needed a warning. Sam weighed next to nothing and he held his own weight pretty sufficiently even without Dean’s help, but Dean was _not_ going to miss out on the opportunity to get his hands on Sam’s sweet ass, unashamed of the fact he was _possibly_ groping more than he was supporting.

Dean wheels, pushing Sam up against the nearest wall, and _moans_ when Sam shifts his hips to accommodate, spreading his legs impossibly wider.

 Sam freezes, and Dean’s scared he’s taken it too far, that his moan had given him away as pushing too much, wanting so much more. He pulls back, breathing heavy, to measure his reaction, only to see that the little shit is _grinning_ like a _mad man._ Amazed and slightly curious, Sam shifts his hips again against Dean’s, and Dean gets the gift of seeing Sam throw his head back against the wall, lips parted and hungry for _more, more, more._

Dean leans in, starving for Sam in the same way Sam seemed starved for him, pressing his lips against Sam’s neck to suck bites and bruises there, and yeah, he likes the way the dark purple blossoms against the pale of Sam’s skin, like a sign of who he belongs too.

Sam grinds his hips down with more force this time, against Dean’s, and Dean is already hard enough to cut diamonds, even though the rational part of his brain is telling him to _stop right now, he’s 15 for fucks sake,_ the other part is just a whirring blur of Sam’s name, his lips, his eyes, his everything, SamSamSamSamSam—and it’s definitely winning.

He looks up at Sam again, at the same time Sam pulls off his shirt, mouthing, _need it,_ and Dean lets him. Because he likes the feel of Sam’s hands on his bare skin _so_ much more than he should, and he makes sure that Sam’s shirt is the next item to be shed, because if he thought he liked Sam’s hands on him, he’s liking hands on Sam even more.

This time, Dean is the one who presses his hips down against Sam, and makes little thrusts, just like he would thrust into his little brother if Sam was naked and pliant and fucking _needy_ in his arms, bending over and inviting Dean—no, _begging_ Dean to give him everything, to give  him what he needs, and _fuck_ Dean was _so_ _close_ …

Sam’s nails scratch at Dean hard enough for wells of blood to surface, but neither of them care, the pleasure driving them both to oblivion, nothing existing in this moment but the other.

“You close?” Dean asks, nipping at Sam’s jaw. He feels it more than he sees it when Sam gives a quick, jerky nod.

And Dean can’t miss this, he _can’t._ So he pulls back to look Sam in the eye, and he sees it the second Sam falls apart, sees his eyes screw shut, his full lips open in a silent gasp—

Except it’s not a gasp, and it’s sure as _hell_ not silent, because when he comes, Sam screams Dean’s name like some sort of desperate battle cry.

It’s over too fast, he thinks absently. He could do this for hours, wants to, wants to learn all the little places that make Sam moan, wants to get his mouth everywhere, lick and kiss at every inch of skin. He wants this forever.

Dean comes right after that, in his pants, like a 12 year old. It’s sticky and gross but he can’t think about that because Sam just said his name and he doesn’t even have seemed to realize it. He’s become a limp thing in Dean’s arms, sagging against him bonelessly.

Dean pants, catching his breath for a few moments, before he gathers enough sense to process that

1.)      Sam just spoke. And it was his name. And it was fucking _beautiful_ coming from his kissed red lips.

2.)     Sam doesn’t seem to have realized he spoke or even that he’s alive right now

3.)     Which makes Dean feel very accomplished, he’s learned

4.)     If his come dries as it is now in his pants it’s going to be a problem.

Keeping all these things in mind, Dean gathers Sam up into his arms, smiling softly, as he brings him up to the bedroom they share, gets them both cleaned up as Sam comes back to his senses, under warm covers and heavy eyelids.

When Dean returns, they’re both dressed in fresh tack pants and sleep shirts and are sinfully comfortable.

Sam, from his curled up position on the bed, blinks up at Dean wickedly, something amused glinting in the hazel of his eyes as he mouths, _I’m still hungry._

The little shit.

-

“It’s time to step in.”

“We made that mistake once. It’s too early, we agreed--”

“He’s in _danger._ The last incident was what we should have been doing the entire time! He needs us. You have to see that.”

A pause.

“He hasn’t been seriously damaged yet. We aren’t ready for war, and that is exactly what this will be.”

“And if something should happen to him?”

Another pause. Longer, this time.

“Nothing _will_ happen to him. That boy is keeping him safe.”

Hesitation, a thoughtful one, this time.

“Yes,” a fond smile. Warm and genuine. “He always has…hasn’t he?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smuttier smut to come, my lovelies, I promise! That was just a little taste since it's been a while and nothing funky has happened between the brothers. Some sexual tension had obviously been building, don't ya think? ;) 
> 
> Anyway, thanks a bunch for reading!  
> As always, you can come yell at me on tumblr, which is wincestplease  
> I'd love to hear what you thought of this chapter (:   
> Thanks! Much love,  
> -Keagan


	20. Slow Dancing in a Burning Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was in Latin, and Dean was a little rusty in his translations, not as good as Sam, (Sam was a fucking genius at picking up languages, was so good at it, always so damn smart) but he got the idea. The general idea of the words was not lost on him.

**"Your silence will not protect you." -Audre Lorde, _Sister Outsider, Essays and Speeches_**

**_-_ **

_Everything around him is warm._

_It’s the first thing he notices._

_Not humid, not hot, but just the right side of warm, enough to make his muscles tingle, enough to make him feel pleasantly relaxed, eye lids heavy, feeling boneless and_ good.

_Sam doesn’t know where he is._

_This place is not familiar, but at the same time, it feels…right. Not new, exactly, but not old either._

_It’s nothing special, an office of sorts, with a desk and a chair and a computer with no windows or doors. Just walls._

_He watches the empty chair behind the desk, confused. No one else was in the room and he isn’t sure how he got here. There are no entrances or exits._

_He sags against the grey painted wall and frowns. Everything was bare, impersonal, no signs that anyone owned this space or had been in here before._

_And then_ he _walks in, wearing a pressed suit and looking quite beautiful, almost unearthly, a birdlike quality to the way he moves, light and airy, like his feet almost don’t actually touch the ground._

_Because there are no doors Sam can see, he isn’t sure where the man came from, but he is just suddenly there, and it makes sense in a way Sam doesn’t try to question._

_“Sam Winchester,” He greets, and his voice is like melting honey, sweet and smooth and slow. He doesn’t offer a hand to shake, but instead, pulls Sam into his arms like he’s done it so many times before even though Sam is pretty sure this man is a stranger, never mind the fact that he doesn’t_ feel _that way. The man seems to know him. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”_

_Sam hugs back, because that feels right, too. The man is not familiar, but just like everything else, he feels right. Sam smiles against his shoulder because he is happy, before he pulls away._

_The man locks the door behind himself, a door that was not there before, and draws the curtains shut, though Sam doesn’t see windows behind them, just grey walls. The room gets a little darker, which doesn’t exactly add up, but Sam doesn’t idle on it too long. It seems unimportant. He has too many other questions._

_The man takes a seat at the desk, and invites for Sam to pull up a chair as well. Sam obliges, because it seems the polite thing to do, settling down into the chair. It’s warm, just like the room, and very comfortable. Plush and soft and it smells fresh, like clean air._

_The man leans in over the desk so that he is closer to Sam, folding his hands together. He begins with, “There isn’t much time. You’re not supposed to be here. We have to be quick.”_

_Sam tilts his head thoughtfully at this, but presses his lips together. He doesn’t know what time is running out for, or why they shouldn’t be where they are. He doesn’t really know anything. And yet, to ask questions would feel wrong, because there is a part of him insisting that he_ should _know, and that it’s embarrassing not to, that it’s wrong not to understand._

 _The man seems to realize that, and his eyes grow sad. “You were never supposed to grow up in the dark,” He says, voice small. “You were always supposed to_ know. _Born with the knowledge, only to have it stolen, along with your voice…”  He trails off unhappily. His emotions seem genuine. The knowledge. Sam wondered what knowledge he was referring to._

_“You need to explain.” Sam mouths, only sound comes out, his voice, and of course it does. He’s spoken in dreams before. This is important, an undertone of urgency that just doesn’t come across even though he can feel it right down to his core._

_The man shakes his head, acting as if Sam speaking is what he expects and nothing more. “I can’t right now. There isn’t time to tell such a tale. You have to be in the dark a little longer.” He tells Sam, and something about his voice sounds pleading, like he’s begging Sam to understand that this just really is a_ bad time. _“I’m sorry.”_

_Sam swallows, and reluctantly nods. He’s about to ask why he’s here, when the man interrupts, casting a frantic glance behind himself, which Sam thinks is funny, considering there is only a grey wall, and they’re completely alone._

_“Sam, listen closely. You are very important. Okay? There is…a lot riding on your life.” He tells Sam seriously, maintaining eye contact, a strong, stern set to his thick brow. “You’ve got to stay out of danger.”_

_“Trying.” Sam says sourly. It’s not like he goes walking around town looking for the nearest demon hang out. He’s on the run from trouble, for heaven’s sake. “I am_ trying.” _Because he god damn_ is, _and he’d like for it to be known that there is a lot of effort that goes into staying out of the sort of trouble the universe likes to throw him into._

_“Try harder.” He snaps, and then looks sorry, shaking his head at himself like he really didn’t mean to snap. Is angry at himself for it, even, rubbing a hand over his cleanly shaven face. “Just…that boy. Your brother. Stay with him.”_

_Sam looks down at his toes. He realizes they are bare. He’s pj pants and Dean’s old Nirvana T shirt, which is exactly what he wore to bed._

_He almost laughs at the man. Like he was ever going to leave Dean anyway, danger or not, Sam knew that they needed each other. He’d tried being on his own once. It’d failed horribly. He ended up in a three month coma. “That’s the plan.” He murmurs, mostly to himself. It has always been the plan._

_He looks back up, but the man is panicking. “They’re coming,” He says urgently. “And I have to go. I don’t know when I’ll be able to reach you again but--” A loud sound interrupts him, like thunder, if thunder had a human voice shouting,_ “Stop!”

 _Sam jumps at the loud sound, and the man whispers in Sam’s ear, words from a language Sam doesn’t understand but_ knows _somewhere deep, deep,_ deep _that he’d heard that tongue before. He doesn’t understand, but he knows it, the same way he knows his name is Sam and that he belongs to Dean. Simple facts he’s never doubted._

_This language is familiar._

_A lot of things in this place are._

_He tries to work the words over in his head, inside out, upside down, twist them around until his mouth is bitter with it, but they still don’t make sense, meaningless things that Sam longs to know._

_A woman with wide green eyes and worried lips steps into view, looking both relived and furious at the same time. “What has he told you?” She demands, getting up in Sam’s face. “What has he said?!”_

_“Nothing!” The man cries, eyes narrowing. He lifts his chin at the woman. “Give him space. I just warned him.”_

_“I don’t understand what’s happening.” Sam interjects. Being out of the know had always been a pet peeve. He’s not the child everyone assumes he is. If any of this has to do with him, then he deserves to know the most. This is his own life being affected. “What’s happening? Why are demons chasing after me and my brother?”_

_“You.” The woman interrupts, pinching the bridge of her nose as she closes her eyes and then opens them to blaze them down at Sam. “Your brother is just an obstacle. It’s you they want.”_

_“Well,_ why?” _Sam demands, hands clenching into fists. He wasn’t afraid of her. “Why won’t you explain?”_

_“Because it’s complicated.” She mutters, and sounds very tired. Sam almost feels bad for demanding so rudely, before he green eyes are hardening again and the guilt disappears with her sympathy. “You’re a child, still.”_

_Sam grits his teeth and somehow finds it in himself to resist the urge to cry,_ I’m not a child! _But it’s a close thing. As it is, he can’t help but fold his arms defensively over his chest and breathing hard._

_“So maybe I am.” Sam says deliberately, with a hard shrug. “Maybe I’m young and inexperienced but something wants me, and I deserve to know why. Otherwise, how can I be expected to protect myself?” he shoots at her, not backing down an inch when she towers over him._

_She stares him down for a moment longer, and then shakes her head. The same language the man had spoke in early escapes her lips, but Sam doesn’t understand it, and he_ hates _that. He wants to know. He deserves to understand. It is his_ right, _it has always been his right to know the tongue and speak it back with fluency, he_ knows _that, only now, the words mean nothing._

_“When you understand that,” She tells him slowly, making her English words clear, as if Sam might not understand those, either. “Then you’ll understand everything.”_

He wakes up.

It’s not the sudden jolt of being lurched violently out of a nightmare. It’s not the gasping, heart racing, drenched in sweat sort of waking up. It’s worse. Much, much worse.

 Sam sits up slowly, and a certain sort of dread falls over him like a heavy black out curtain, drowning all his other senses as his heart sinks down to his toes, which are pressed up against Dean’s calve to keep them warm. He knows now that he is in the sort of trouble they’ve never faced before, and if he had any doubt in his mind that this was something bigger than they could easily handle, it was long gone, now.

 Dean is still asleep, but starting to stir, eyelids fluttering like he might wake up soon. His arms, still wrapped around Sam, flex and tighten instinctively, and Sam smiles a small smile, one that he keeps for moments like this, moments where Dean just surprises him out of nowhere and he everything is really, really fucking terrifying but Dean wants him close which means….

Sam’s not sure what it means, exactly, but he does know that he collapses back onto Dean’s chest and that he likes the pleased, sleepy sound Dean makes when Sam cuddles closer, sinfully comfortable and absolutely exhausted. He knows that the dread in the pit of his stomach seems to be fading when Dean hugs him just a little closer. He knows that the nightmare can wait until sunrise. The world will not end as Sam sleeps, if he has to keep it from doing so by pure force of will.

For now, Sam closes his eyes and presses his face into Dean’s neck and breathes, because for now, that is all Sam knows how to do.

-

_Dean is lying on his back, staring up at a sky that has no moon and no stars._

_“Do you want to keep your boy?” She asks._

_“What kind of question is that?”_

_“One you’d do well to answer.”_

_“Yes, I want to keep Sam. Forever.”_

_“Would you die for him?”_

_“Yes. In a heartbeat.”_

_“Would you die for him?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Would you die?”_

_“I would do anything.”_

_“Would you_ die _for him?”_

_“Yes. I would die for him.”_

_“The bloodiest death?”_

_“The most painful death for him.”_

_“Would you live for him?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Would you make the ultimate sacrifice?”_

_“There is nothing I wouldn’t do.”_

_“Endure torture from the devil himself?”_

_“Just to see him smile.”_

_“Kill for him?”_

_“Of course.”_

_“Kill for him?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Kill an innocent man?”_

_“…Yes. I would.”_

_“Drain yourself of blood to keep him alive?”_

_“And my beating heart, too. My lungs. My eyes. Anything. Everything.”_

_“Go into hiding from the rest of society?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Let yourself be another dead body in the wave of those who will need to sacrifice themselves for him?”_

_“Easily done. He is everything to me. There is nothing I wouldn’t do for him. No one I wouldn’t hurt. Nothing I wouldn’t give up. No place I wouldn’t burn to the ground for him. He is my first priority. Sammy always has been, for me.”_

_Pause. “Yes.” The voice purrs, darkly approving, sending chills down Dean’s spine. “We’ve chosen the right one.”_

-

When Dean wakes up, Sam is gone.

He knows it before his eyes are even open, knows it all too well—the bed is too cold, the right side of his body where Sam had curled up was too exposed, everything felt _wrong, wrong, wrong._

Dean is up and hopping around to pull on jeans, chest bare, before he even fully opens two eyes. Sam is gone. _Sam_ is _gone._

It doesn’t feel like the type of gone that meant Sam got up early to go make breakfast or shower. It’s the sort of gone that had a certain type of finality, the sort of gone that leaves Dean’s body cold as ice and just as frozen from movement. It takes him a second to remember how to function.

_Breathe, Dean._

_But Sammy’s not here._

_Breathe, Dean._

_Sammy—_

It can’t be. This isn’t happening, not again. _Fuck_ not again because _dammit_ Dean just got his kid back and the stakes are higher than ever. If they get Sam, they’ll kill him, they’ll kill him, they’ll _kill his fucking kid._

Dean breathes, eventually, and calls out of Sam as loudly as his sleep ridden voice will let him. “Sam!” He shouts, with more than a little desperation. “Sammy?”

No answer.

But…even if Sam _was_ there, there wouldn’t an answer.

Dean tries not to think about how good his name had sounded off of Sam’s kissed red lips, and focused on the task at hand.

Sam’s got to be here. He _has_ to be. Dean would have woken up. He would have…he would have _known_ if they’d taken him, right? _Right?_

“Sam, this isn’t funny.” Dean growls, because it’s easier to pretend like Sam is 6 and this is hide and go seek and Dean will open up the closet door and Sam will be there with a dimpling face and wide, beautiful eyes. It’s easier to imagine that Sam will giggle and jump in his arms and think that he was so clever in the hiding spot he always chose, no matter how he worried Dean with unannounced games of hide and go seek. It’s easy to pretend that this is just another sunny July afternoon and John is hunting and Bobby is downstairs making his famous blueberry pancakes even if it’s 3 in the afternoon because Sam fucking _loved_ those pancakes. It’s easier to pretend that Sam, small and birdlike as he is, will come running around the corner, will launch himself at Dean and hold on tight like it’s his god damn _right_ to be as close to Dean as possible. It’s so much easier to pretend like it was back when everything was simpler.

Dean opens up the closet door despite the fact he knows it’ll hold nothing--not anymore, despite the fact that is used to be Sammy’s favorite place to hide--but Bobby’s flannel, and slams it shut hard enough to rattle the entire house when he sees he’s right, grabbing fistfuls of his own hair in frustration. If Sam were here, he’d chide Dean for it.  

“Dammit, Sam!” He curses under his breath. He has to be here. He _has_ to be. “Don’t do this to me, kid.”

Down the stairs, three at a time, and into the kitchen, where he stops dead in his tracks, muscles locking.

Sam, asleep, face down on a book Dean can’t see the title of, face mushed into the pages, snoring delicately, and Dean wants to hit him awake and curl up beside him at the same time and he can’t decide which is the best course of action.

Sam has never been a heavy sleeper, but he was clearly deeply under now—a slammed door and Deans thunderous voice had not jostled him in the slightest. He looked peaceful, which was a nice change from the twisted arch of his brow any other night when nightmares overtook.

Dean breathes for the first time since he thought Sam had been taken. It feels like the first time in forever. Sam was here with him. Alive. Unhurt. Sam was okay.

 _Sammy_.

He walks over slowly, and sits down in the chair beside Sam, puts his hand over Sam’s, and sighs a little when Sam’s fingers curl instinctively around Dean’s, like a baby’s might. Dean kisses Sam’s forehead very softly, letting his lips linger just a little, and wonders when he’d snuck out of bed and why. How long had he been down here?

“Bitch.” He grumbles. His heart rate is just about back to normal, now. The panic is over, Sammy is safe. “Never do that to me again.”

Curious, Dean can’t help but wonder what the book is that had kept Sam up so late, or so early. He cradles Sam’s head to keep him from getting jostled awake and slides the book free, laying Sam’s head back on the table, gently.

Scanning the book with quick fingers, Dean nearly drops it. He’d seen it before, it’s worn spine tucked onto Bobby’s shelf, but he’d never pulled it (or, admittedly, any other book on Bobby’s shelves) out. It had never caught his eye. Just another book full of words that wouldn’t affect his life at all.

It was about Heaven and Hell, Dean discovers, after pulling it out and scanning through it. The page Sam had fallen asleep reading contained a paragraph that truly frightened Dean, leaving his veins feeling like they were filled with ice in place of blood. His mind scattered instantly, and he spent a good 10 minutes pulling back every piece of it so he could think clearly.

 It was in Latin, and Dean was a little rusty in his translations, not as good as Sam, (Sam was a fucking genius at picking up languages, was so good at it, always so damn _smart_ ) but he got the idea. The general idea of the words was not lost on him.

He holds the book tightly in trembling fingers and rereads it four times before he can even process what he’s seeing.

The book predicts of a great war between heaven and hell, one that could tear the world apart, could destroy the earth and kill all living inhabitants. A war like this one would bring the universe to its knees.

A war, over one child, one boy.

 A voiceless boy.

Dean shuts the book quickly, like the words might rip themselves from the pages and manifest their horrific story right before his eyes if he didn’t. It hit too hard, was too close to home and he _couldn’t_ believe a word of it.

Heaven and hell and a boy with no voice. A _powerful_ boy with no voice. The translation wasn’t exact, but it didn’t have to be.

He understood it just fine.

He picks up the phone.

Sam sleeps.

Dean kisses the top of his head one more time, before the person on the other end of the line picks up.

-

Before she can even pour the sugar into her coffee, Megan’s phone is ringing from where it’d been charging overnight on the counter. She lunges to answer it before its shrill tones can wake her still sleeping husband. She can’t even say hello before the voice in her ear begins to whisper frantically.

“I know it’s sort of early and I left without saying goodbye or leaving any explanation but I had my reasons and Sammy was in danger…he still is, really, and I called because I need you to tell me everything you know about the war between heaven and hell.” Dean says in one rush of breath, his eyes squeezed tightly shut.

It so, _so_ good to hear from him, to know he’s alive. But the panic and desperation in his voice makes her forget how worried she’d been and snap into action. She leans back against the counter so her legs don’t give out in case Dean decides to say something particularity traumatizing.

There is a long, long silence on the other end of the line, and Dean is sure that Megan just isn’t going to answer, when finally, her young voice sighs very softly. “How much do you know, Dean?”

Dean grimaces slightly, his heart pounding blood loudly into his own ears. “Sam was up all night reading a book that said something between a war between heaven and hell over a powerful boy with no voice.” He whispers. “And I’m scared.”

“You should be.” She tells him gravely, which isn’t reassuring in the slightests. Though Dean didn’t call to be comforted. He called for information. “You said Sam was up all night reading?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you make him sleep? He’s a growing boy, Dean, teenagers need at least 10 hours of sleep in order to function properly you kn--”

“He _was_ asleep.” Dean groans, interrupting her nervous rant. “He must have come downstairs sometime during the middle of the night for god knows what reason, found this book, and fell asleep reading it. I don’t know what the hell to think about any of it.”

“There was definitely a reason.” Megan murmurs, shivering once. A bad one. “He was visited.”

Dean freezes, hand tightening on the phone. “The house is warded. No one can get in--”

“Into the house, maybe.” Megan agrees, though she doesn’t know where Dean is and she doesn’t plan on asking. Somewhere safe is all she can hope for them. For her to know more beyond that would be too dangerous for both parties. “That’s not what I meant.” She pauses, and Dean hears shuffling, like a books pages being leafed through. “I meant in his dream.”

That doesn’t make Dean feel any better. Actually, it’s worse. He can’t protect Sam in his own head, as he knows so well. “They can get into his _head?”_ he demands, eyes flying open and instantly looking at his kid, fast asleep. Were they in their now, peppering his dreams when instead it should be Dean’s face? Were they spewing lies at Sam, telling him awful things?

“He’s vulnerable when he’s asleep, yes.” Megan agrees solemnly. “Demons…no. They’d have to be extremely powerful to be able to visit dreams. But angels…”

“Shit.” Dean whimpered. “What the hell am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to be enough for him? I’m just one person and he’s in so much danger--”

“Dean.” Megan says, her voice like a clap of thunder, ringing with authority. “You can do it. You’ve been doing it so far. One day at a time, yes? Until we know more, that’s all we can do. One day at a time.”

“We?” Dean echoes, turning it into a question. He was alone here; there was no one on his side but himself. Him and Sammy against Heaven and Hell. Against everything.

“Yes.” Megan agrees. “You call me every day. You give me updates. I’ll do what research I can, figure out some more on this entire shit fest. I’ll do what I can.”

“Okay.” Dean says. His voice sounds small.

“Dean,” Megan checks in. “You’ve got to stay calm. Sam can’t afford for you to be off your game. You have to be one hundred percent focused one hundred percent of the time. Do I make myself clear, boy?”

Dean stares at Sam. The soft brown of his hair and the way it curls over his forehead and ears, swirls at the nape of his neck. His lashes, long and casting crescent shaped shadows down his cheeks. His lips, slightly parted and so kissable it _hurts._

It all adds up to one pretty vulnerable imagine. Sam so skinny and so _good,_ so trusting that nothing will happen to him here, making himself such an easy target because he doesn’t feel targeted at all. He knows that here, in this place with Dean, nothing would ever happen to him because he _trusts_ that Dean won’t _let_ anything happen to him.

Dean isn’t going to let that trust be lost. Not now, not fucking _ever._ And no one would hurt his kid.

He feels the wrath of a thousand angry men build and build within him until nothing else is considerable except victory, except feeling bones crunch and seeing bodies fall. Nothing except black smoke fleeing in fear at the very mention of Dean’s name because it should be known amongst demons that if you mess with Sam Winchester, you’re dead.

 And in that moment, Dean could do it. Dean could take on heaven and hell and he could come out on top. All the black eyed sons of bitches in the world couldn’t defeat him. Not a single winged bastard was gonna hurt his kid. They’d cower in fear, they’d shudder at the mention of his name.

Dean was just a human, singular and weak in his physical strength compared to armies of supernatural creatures. But he would do it. He could do it, would find a way to save his boy and keep him safe because there were no other options.

“Demons. Angels.” Megan says, when Dean doesn’t reply. “It’s not going to be easy. Anything but, probably. And you’re not even close to being ready.”

“Angels.” Dean repeats flatly, letting that sink in. Because it hadn’t really. “ _Angels.”_

“Yes, Dean, angels.” Megan mutters. “You’re not unaware, we both know that. You’ve seen things that you know is proof.”

Dean lets that settle in his stomach for a good five minutes, just staring at Sam while he does, before he swallows, hard. “Megan?” He asked.

“Yeah, kid?” She replies, voice as gentle and as suddenly tentative as his.

“I….saw something….that I can’t explain.” He begins carefully.

She snorts. “Isn’t that the story of your life?” She mutters. “Of every hunters life?”

“This was different.” He argues. “It had to do with Sam.”

Megan silences, and for a moment, it’s just her breathing. “You can tell me, honey.” She prompts gently. “It’s important that I know everything you do so I can help you with this. What did you see, Dean?”

Dean inhales slowly, deeply. “It was at a family diner. We’d been drivin’ for hours and we were both dying for some real food, y’know? Drive thru crap just wasn’t cutting it. I was so stupid…thought it’d be a good idea. We had an argument, Sam stormed off into the bathroom alone. We were attacked. By demons. A lot of them. Half of them kept me busy so the other half to get to Sam in the bathroom.” He follows Sam’s heavy, even breathing. To keep himself from hyperventilating. “I tried so hard to get to him, but I couldn’t. I was weak.” It wouldn’t happen again.

“And so anyway, I manage to get away from the demons that had attacked me, and hear Sam _scream.”_ He says, voice breathy and desperate.

“Sam’s a mute.” Megan argues, but she sounds unsure. “Dean…Sam doesn’t speak. How could he scream?”

“Well…he doesn’t anymore, not really.” Dean whispers, like it’s a secret no one else could hear because the things Sam’s says are selfishly Dean’s. “He’s a selective mute. Sammy _used_ to talk. I remember his first word. I _remember._ And now…now sometimes he says words…really rarely, when he’s taken by surprise or lost in himself or something. But I don’t think he even realizes he does it.” Dean remembers his name off swollen lips and his eyes want to fall shut at the blissful memory. “I haven’t told him that he used to speak. I don’t know why, but I just haven’t.”

And maybe it’s because sometimes, Dean likes that Sam doesn’t speak. Because he understands Sam like no one else, because he’s _had_ to in order to communicate. If Sam could speak, he could share his feelings with anyone so easily…and it’s the most selfish thing Dean’s ever thought but he can’t bring himself to take it back because it’s _true._

Megan is in shock, not saying anything, no sound except breathing on both ends of the line, until Dean decides the story must be finished because it would eat him alive if he didn’t get an answer for what he saw.

“I burst inside the bathroom, and Sam was there, crying and trying to breathe curled up in the corner but…” Dean trails off, remembering all too well the scene he’d walked in on, the horror and confusion washing over him in fresh waves.

“Dean,” Megan says quietly, after a few moments of silence. “What was it?”

“The demons.” Dean explains, voice distance, gaze unfocused. “Every single one of them, down on the ground…”

“And?” Megan probed, because she seemed to somehow know that there _was_ an ‘and’ on the way.

Dean’s voice is so quiet it’s almost inaudible, though somehow Megan catches it when he says, “And their eyes were burned out of their heads.”


	21. Please God Tell Me We're Dreaming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "But?" Dean prompts.  
> There is a "but".

Megan is quiet for a long time after that, the silence on the other end of the phone leaving Dean’s heart to stammer and race, unsure of what to think.

But he knew this: it was bad. It was very, _very_ bad.

-

By the time Bobby had found anything close to a clue, he was 99.99% sure John was already dead.

It’s just cold, hard fact. John had been off the radar for a while now, no contact to the outside world. Bobby doesn’t know how long of that time he’d been taken, but he’s got a pretty good idea.

Without food or water, John would be exhausted. Torture was a given—whoever had taken him had to want Sam, and therefore, want information Bobby knew John wouldn’t give up.

No way two major things happen to them in this short a period of time without being connected. No, whoever took John wanted to get to Sam. Maybe they thought it’d work as a trap, that Dean would drive himself and his little brother right into the icy arms of whoever wanted them.

Little did _they_ know nothing came before Sam.

The clue was not much—hardly anything, really. But Bobby had done exactly what he told Dean he’d do: talk to the civilians, check the hunters network. See what people know.

There’d been a woman, petite blonde thing that reminded Bobby just a little of Mary, which meant it’d probably reminded a drunk John Winchester _a lot_ of Mary. She says she slept with him, and he went out for a smoke in the middle of the night. Never came back—took his bag with him.

She said she didn’t know where he’d went—and Bobby believed her—but Bobby had continued to ask around, in some coffee shops around the motel the blonde told him they’d stayed at.

And eventually, he’d come across something he’d call a miracle.

It wasn’t much, of course. He nearly missed it. But it was _everything,_ in the end.

After driving for seemingly forever, Bobby noticed a little sigil painted on the back door of a coffee shop, as he circled it. He pulled to a screeching halt, and put the truck in reverse, eyes wide, not trusting his own aged vision.

But yes. There it was. In red graffiti, an ancient sigil Bobby recognized as a sigil to ward off angels.

Which meant it had a little more than a little to do with demons.

Which meant, of course, that it might lead somewhere.

It might not have any connection to John, but it’s not something he’s willing to overlook, related or not. Angels and Demons sound too much like what’s happening with Sam and Bobby doesn’t like to turn his head away from a problem.

He parks the truck a few lots over, and unloads his rock salt shotgun, clicking off the safety. “Right,” He mutters to himself, well aware of just how bad an idea this could be. “Here we go.”

-

“ _Megan,”_ Dean pleads, holding the phone tighter to his ear. Sam stirs at the raise in his voice, but doesn’t wake. “I don’t understand.”

“How can you? You’re a child.” Megan says distantly. “You shouldn’t be caught up in all of this. You and Sam…”

“Megan.” Dean says again, only his voice is harder. “Tell me what the hell it means.”

Megan takes a long time before answering. When she does, her voice seems far away, like she’s daydreaming. “When a demons eyes are burned from its head, it’s the work of an angel.”

Dean pauses. “That’s impossible.” He says dumbly. Angels? Not even a possibility.  “There was no one else in there except Sam and the demons.” He’d have known if there was an angel there. Dean doesn’t know _how_ exactly, but he’d know.

Megan is breathing a little quicker. “Are you _sure?”_

Dean is. “Yes.” He tells her. Demons. Sam. No one else. If there had been, and Heaven really _did_ want Sam, why would they have left him there? It didn’t add up.

She hesitates, yet again, and Dean’s hand is a white knuckle grip on Bobby’s kitchen table. “Do you know what this means?” She whispers finally.

And maybe Dean _does_ know, to some degree, but it sounds absurd floating around in his own head and he’s too scared to say the words himself. He’s got to hear them to trust that he isn’t crazy, he’s got to know he’s not losing his mind amidst all this chaos.

“It means Sam was the one who killed those demons. Burned their eyes out. Like an _angel_ does.”

-

Dean sits there at Bobby’s kitchen table in the familiar shabby kitchen and holds the phone by his ear, although there is nothing more to hear because Megan isn’t speaking. Just breathing.

Sam looks beautiful asleep. Sam is always beautiful.

-

Sam’s an angel.

-

“Is Sam an angel?” Dean asks.

-

“No.” Megan replies. “I mean—no. He’s not. He can’t be. He eats food. He sleeps. But…”

“But?” Dean prompts.

-

There is a “but”.

-

“But maybe he’s not entirely human.” Megan allows. “He’s got angel blood, Dean. And if he’s powerful enough to smite all those demons by _accident…_ then we have no way of knowing what else he’s capable of.”

Something in her voice is making Dean defensive. It sounds like she’s saying he’s _dangerous_. “Sam would never hurt anyone.”

“Not intentionally.” She says slowly, her voice soft, like she’s talking to an animal that could be easily spooked. “But Dean, we have to consider the risks--”

Dean hangs up.

-

Sam’s got angel blood in his veins.

-

“Wonder if they’ve figured it out yet, Johnny boy.”

John can’t see anything. The room is dark.

“Wonder if they know what sort of little _spawn_ of a son you’ve been hiding away all these years. Their own father, keeping such a secret from them.”

John hasn’t spoken to the goon yet, but that doesn’t stop the fucker from continuing to egg him on, even if he’s realized by now it doesn’t work.

“Sam’s probably _heartbroken.”_ It sighs. “Boss’ll be real happy to know that. When they’re sad, they’re easier to break.”

John grinds his teeth but refrains from commenting otherwise.

“You think it’ll be bad if _we_ get him? All we want is information. But the angels? _Hah._ They’ll keep him forever, they’ll twist and contort his brain until he thinks he’s doing _god’s will.”_ It laughs. “And isn’t the worst sort of torture controlled freedom?”

John tilts his head and thinks _yes._

-

Sam wakes up the sound of bacon sizzling and the heavy scent of Dean’s famous cinnamon pancakes. He blinks, slowly, gazing around himself in confusion for a few moments as he gets his bearings.

And yes, this place is familiar. Bobby’s much-loved kitchen, and he’s….at the kitchen table?

Dean’s standing at the stove, flipping pancakes onto a plate along with some bacon, humming some song Sam recognizes but can’t place a name or artist to. It’s…domestic. It’s an illusion.

Still, he indulges himself in the thought that maybe one day, they could have this. Home cooked breakfast and humming and the smell of pancakes in a house that belonged to them.

 _That’s not for you,_ his inner mind chides him. _The Winchester’s don’t do normal._

And it was true, so Sam drops it just like he has every time before.

He yawns widely and stretches, as he remembers exactly _why_ he was downstairs in the first place.

Ah, yes. The nightmare. The awful, _sticky_ nightmare that had made him feel….loss. Like he’d had something important and lost it forever.

 The memories were right at the tip of his tongue, the top of his mind...but he couldn’t recall.

He’d needed answers, knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep without them. So he’d come downstairs and picked the first book that drew him in. Only, what he found within its pages was terrifying.

Yes. Sam remembers exactly what he read. It’d been in Latin, but Sam’s Latin is impeccable and he read it easily enough, only having to pause every once and a while to focus on translations.

A boy, with no voice, a _powerful_ boy.

A boy that would cause a war between heaven and hell strong enough to bring the universe to its knees.

As Sam pushes to his feet, a wave of dizziness overcomes him.

Dean turns when he hears the chair slide across the floor, slightly alarmed. “Sammy,” He says, surprised, and a little guarded. Sam can understand why. The book is gone from the table, which means Dean took it. Dean knows what Sam was reading about. “You’re awake just in time.”

 _Dean,_ Sam mouths, his stomach caving like someone punched him in the gut as information flies around his head, everything he’d learned last night about himself. _The book._

Dean tilts his head, and purses his lips. “What book?” He tries weakly. But the effort is half-hearted if it’s even there at all, and Sam just stares back with clear hazel eyes until he relents. “Look, Sam, don’t worry about it, okay, kiddo? Let’s just eat.”

Sam shakes his head, and disappears for only a few seconds to search for a notebook and pen. When he returns, he slams it down on the counter beside Dean and begins to write furiously, jerky movements of the black ink across the page.

 **I had a dream last night. I was in….somewhere. I didn’t know where but I recognized it. Somehow. And there was a man, and he was telling me to make sure I stayed out of danger. And then a woman, who said something to me in a language I didn’t understand and told the man I wasn’t ready to know everything just yet. But when I understand that language, I’ll be ready. **Sam pauses, writing the last words slower, more careful with his scrawl. **What does it mean, Dean?**

Dean reads as Sam writes, the way it’s always been, and sighs very softly, mostly to himself, Sam thinks. He reaches out to touch Sam, but Sam recoils. He doesn’t want comfort, not now. He wants answers. He regrets it for a moment when he sees the hurt flash in Dean’s eyes, but then Dean says, “I don’t know, Sam. I’m just as blind as you are in all of this, okay? I don’t have any answers.”

And maybe Sam would even believe it, if the book was still under him and if Dean was just a little more freaked out and if he hadn’t gotten so damn good at seeing right through Dean’s ever façade.

Dean grimaces and stares at the word for a long time, and Sam can see the conflict in his eyes as he argues himself out of telling Sam the truth Sam knows he deserves.

**I’m not a kid, Dean. Stop treating me like one.**

Dean’s frown only deepens at that, but he says, “I know you’re not a kid, Sam. But this kind of stuff is…it’s huge. Has the possibility to be end of the world huge, okay? You understand that? This is bigger than anything we’ve ever dealt with before. Angels and—and demons! Heaven and Hell, Sammy, and they all want you.” Dean’s breathing a little harder, proof of the emotion he’s restraining.

 _Oh, Dean. De. I’m so sorry. I don’t want to bring this all on you._ Because now, this is Dean’s worst nightmare. Everyone wants Sam, wants to hurt him, and in Dean’s head, his only job is to protect Sam.

But how can Dean protect him from all that?

He’d let it slip. Heaven and Hell both want Sam. It confirms Sam’s suspicions. The book was right.

The entire world, destroyed, for Sam Winchester.

Sam steps away from Dean, then, and lets his hands fall limp at his sides. The pen slips from his fingers and clatters on the floor and there is a certain finality to it that makes Dean’s mouth go dry.

Dean takes a step towards him but Sam doesn’t react, his eyes glazed over, trapped somewhere Dean will never be able to see, but the resulting look in his kids face is fucking terrifying.

Sam looks _broken_.

-

 _It’s me,_ Sam thinks. _I’m the voiceless boy destined to tear the world apart._

And in a sad sort of sense, it explains a hell of a lot.

-

Dean breathes in.

Sam breathes out.

Neither of them make any other sound, until the silence feels so heavy Dean doesn’t know how his knees don’t buckle under the weight of it all. “Sam,” He pleads, finally. He doesn’t know where Sam’s mind has wandered, but he wants his kid back and in the present, please.

Sam blinks, but doesn’t otherwise react.

Dean walks forward until he’s right before Sam, their chests brushing. He snaps his fingers in Sam’s face and gets nothing, like a sleepwalker. It shoots ice through his veins, instantly.

“Where’ve you gone?” Even to his own ears, Dean sounds desperate.

-

_“You’ve broken yourself.” She tells him, and her voice is sympathetic. “This is a lot of information all at once.”_

_“Yes.” Sam says. He likes his own voice. Wishes he could keep it in the waking world._

_“You’re strong enough, though. If you try.”_

_Sam presses his lips together. He isn’t sure she’s right._

_“Why me?” He asks finally. He deserves this much._

_“Sam Winchester, you were born into this world for one purpose only—to be extraordinary.” She tells him, her voice matter-of-fact. “You’re not even close to your full potential. You could be so amazing. You could save everybody.”_

_Sam pouts like a child, hugging his arms around himself. “I don’t want this. It’s not me. Wrong mute.” He sneers. “I can’t save anybody. I can’t even keep my brother from hating himself.”_

_She tilts his head and says something in that strange tongue of hers, and then scrutinizes his face, searching for something._

_“I don’t know what you’re saying.” He tells her, irritated._

_“No.” She murmurs, her voice sad. “And perhaps you never will. I had no idea how much he’d done to you, Samual Winchester. Please understand that it was not meant to be this way. You were supposed to understand. The knowledge…it was stolen from you at a very young age.”_

_Before he can respond, there’s another voice interrupting._

_“Sam.” Not the woman’s voice, but a voice he knows better than the back of his own hand._

_“Sam, come back to me.”_

_It’s Dean._

_-_

“Sam.” Dean tries again. “Sam, come back to me.”

Blinking his doe eyes rapidly, Sam seems to snap back into the present and Dean feels his shoulders sag in strong relief.

“Don’t…” he huffs, swallowing. “Don’t ever do that to me again. Christ.”

Sam purses his lips. He looks…haunted.

“Sam?” Dean asks, turning to him, eyes wide. “You okay?”

Sam nods his head yes. _Fine,_ he mouths. _Not hungry, though._ He gestures to the food with a somewhat apologetic look.

Dean doesn’t know what to say. “It’s fine,” He murmurs. “Go shower, okay? Might help you feel a little better.” Dean tells him, though he knows this problem is much too big for some hot water and alone time to fix. He even considers offering to join Sam, but that won’t help anything, either. Just another factor to add to the chaos that is their life now.

Sam doesn’t say anything, but retreats anyway, as Dean leans his weight against the wall.

His little brother, destined to start the end of the world just by existing.

Dean runs his hand back through his hair and closes his eyes.

Everything has gone to shit and his own head is spinning with questions he can’t answer.

He opens his eyes and glares skyward, thinking about everything and nothing at all.

-

Sam showers. Doesn’t feel the water burn his skin until it’s red and raw. Doesn’t feel the towel scrap across him or soak the wetness from his hair. Doesn’t feel anything at all.

He can think only and idly about who he is. About what he is said to be. A powerful boy who has no voice. Wanted by Heaven and Hell. Bound to destroy the world.

He opens his hands and stares down at them. He’s not powerful. He’s just a boy, a pathetic one, at that. A coward.

Dresses in Dean’s old t shirt and boxers. Doesn’t feel the worn fabric ghost against his skin, though he smells Dean all around him and if was capable of feeling, in that moment, he’d have felt slightly comforted.

His legs fold beneath him and he lands in a neat pile on the bedroom floor. His arms become limp things at his sides.

Sam needs to vent, and without words, there is only one other way to do that.

He stares for a long time at the journal he’s poured everything into. There are but a few pages left—he’ll need a new one, soon. Filled up to the top with his everyday trials and tribulations,

-

**Dear J,**

**I have never experienced an emptiness such as this.**

**I would no wish the numbness upon my greatest enemy.**

**-SW**

Sam closes the journal and throws it out the window.


	22. Hurts Like Heaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, Sam lights up.  
> It's apparently a thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am trash.  
> This update took FOREVER and I am so sorry. I was just at crossroads with it and I had no idea what to do next. Because, of course, I never really planned for this fic to go past 50k. And now it's at like what...102k? It's taken on a life of it's own...
> 
> Thank you guys so much for your continued support. I'd be nowhere without it and this fic would have never made it past the drafting stages. Your comments give me life.  
> Thank you for reading, and I hope (although this chapter is short) that you enjoy it, and I promise to get chapter 23 up ASAP.

**"Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. "-Lord Acton, _1834-1902_**

**_-_ **

“This has got to be the stupidest thing you’ve done yet, Singer.” John grits through clenched teeth. “Now look what you’ve done.”

Bobby stares down at his lap and pulls vainly at the ties that bind his wrists together behind his back, as though he hasn’t been doing just that for the past hour he’d been tied up.

Perhaps it was longer.

“Well excuse me for comin’ in to save your ass.” He sneers back, refusing to look at John.

“Some piss poor rescue mission this is.” John retorts sharply. By the bloodied look of his attire, and the dark marks and cuts covering his face, it’s a shock that the man can even muster up such emotion at all.

“Yeah, well. My huntin’ skills ain’t what they used to be,” Bobby mutters, mostly to himself.

John isn’t having it. He’s not listening to anything Bobby says. “What do you think will happen now? Dean calls you. No answer. He’ll assume the worst. He’ll come _looking for you.”_ He says venomously. “And he won’t leave Sam alone, which means Sam will be coming, too. You’ve just led them right to us.”

“They didn’t go looking for you, they won’t come looking for me.” Bobby says stiffly. “They’re smarter than that.”

“I’m not what you are to them.” John says, and his voice is softer, somehow. There’s an undertone to it, a sort of longing. Bobby almost feels bad.

“Christ, John, what was I supposed to do?” Bobby growls, determined to keep up the heat. Hell, he was mad. “They knocked me out cold!”

“Not this.” John huffs. “You shouldn’t have come for me at all. Now it’s my boys against the world. They don’t stand a chance.”

“I wouldn’t say that.” Bobby says stubbornly. “You’d be surprised. They’re capable of a lot.”

“Heaven, and hell, Bobby. Against them, two teenage boys.”

“Dean would do anything for Sam.”

“Die for him?” John says bitterly.

“In a heartbeat, with a smile on his face.”

“Good. Because that is how this is going to end.” John says shortly.

Bobby doesn’t reply, and John sighs quietly.

“You know that, right? There is no way in hell we can win. We can only…delay the inevitable. I’ve done everything, my entire life, tried to protect Sammy best I could, tried to instill in Dean that _he had_ to protect Sam. Kept him away from hunts, kept him hidden from everyone. I mean, half of my closest partners don’t even know the kid is mute. I thought I was doin’ an alright job.” He scoffs, shaking his head. “But Heaven and Hell are going to pull all the stops. They’ll do whatever it takes to get him. And if that means killing every human on the planet to get to Sam, they’ll do it.”

Bobby closes his eyes. “Sam and Dean have the strongest bond I’ve ever seen.” He says, choosing his words carefully. “I believe, that if the world turned against them, they’d have some fighting chance.”

“That’s--”

The door to their tiny, tiny room opens, and they both fall silent as a demon stalks, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, paired with Nike sneakers.

  _How domestic,_ Bobby thinks sarcastically to himself. At least the supporting of Nike sweatshops was demonic.

“Well, well, well.” The demon muses. “Look what we have here. John Winchester _and_ Bobby Singer.” He chuckles. “Now, if I knew anythin’ about dear Sammy and Dean Winchester, I’d say that this would be just enough to send ‘em running here, don’t you think?”

 

Bobby snorts. Dean’s not stupid. Maybe, given different circumstances, Dean might have come after his drunk of a father and his dumb ass surrogate uncle. Maybe, just maybe, Dean would have gotten them out, and sent a few demons back to where they belong in the process. Dean is smart. He’s a good hunter. He could have done it, easily enough.

 

But right now, things are different. Different, because Heaven and Hell want Sam bad enough they’ll do whatever it takes to get him. If it didn’t before, now, Dean’s entire world is Sam, even more so than it usually is. Now, all Dean can do is protect Sam. There is no one else for him, not anymore. His world starts and ends with his little brother.

 

He’ll do whatever it takes to keep Sam safe. If that means sacrificing himself or others. If it means letting the entire world burn to ash while he and Sam make home somewhere amongst the flames. He’ll do it. There are no more limits, no more _laws_ of what is right and wrong. Dean’s world is shades of grey.

 

John might not know it. The demon definitely doesn’t know it.

 

But Bobby? Bobby is sure.

 

-

The bar is alive with chatter and smoke and it smells like hard liquor and nightmares.

Megan knows Omens well enough now to say that this was a busier day for the place, and that these sort of days weren’t very often. There was an air to the place that hinted at something stirring up amongst the hunters.

 

She sashays in, and takes a seat at the bar, ordering a beer just to give her hands something to do.

 

Her husband didn’t know where she was right now. Jake had taken Kyle out to buy some supplies to redecorate his room, just like she’d promised they would.

 

Kyle was abnormally quiet, and had refused to attend school until they found out more about Sam and where he’d gone with Dean.

 

Worry plagued the entire household.

 

If Jake did know she was at Omens all alone like she’d mused about nearly a week ago, he’d surely disapprove, no matter that he’d help her with whatever she needed. Jake didn’t understand—he hadn’t met the Winchesters. He hadn’t seen the way Dean spoke about Sam, like a religious man speaks about their God.

 

Utter devotion, love and respect. Dean would do absolutely anything for Sam. And the feeling was contagious. Megan too felt herself falling in a downward spiral of protective love for Sam, a boy she hardly knew.

 

The bartender slides a beer across the table and it stops directly in front of Megan, proof of years of practice. Megan smiles her thanks somewhat robotically at him and the bartender returns it, leaning on his elbows as if he knows she’s got questions.

 

But of course, Robert has owned this place for 35 years, and his father, before that. He ought to know a thing or to. Although Omens never attracted many tourists, it was a rather popular spot for hunters to collaborate and gossip. If anyone has heard anything, it’s Robert.

 

“Rob.” Megan addresses. “I’ve got a question.”

 

Robert raises his bushy grey eyebrows at her, eyes alight with mirth. “If I had a dime every time someone said that to me…” He snorts, shaking his head a little to himself. “Anyway. Shoot.”

 

Megan gives him a tired smile and leans in a little more. “I want you to tell me everything and anything you’ve heard about John Winchesters sons.”

-

Dean fusses around, cleaning up the kitchen to keep from feeling useless, and then trudges upstairs, feet heavy as if made of lead, knocking lightly on the bedroom door. “S’me.” Dean murmurs, as if it could be anyone else.

 

The door doesn’t open, and Dean doesn’t get a reply (not that he’s expecting one) so he opens the door on his own, slowly and quietly, stepping inside.

 

When he sees Sam, Dean’s heart (as if it wasn’t already broken) crumbles to dust.

 

Sam has never looked so small and so lost. He’s a spec, a fluffy brown head lost between the blankets, his body curled up into the perfect size for Dean to take into his arms.

 

And he wants to. God, he wants to.

 

“Oh, Sammy,” Dean whispers, and Sam doesn’t stir, but Dean knows somehow that he isn’t asleep, though his back is facing Dean.

 

He takes a seat on the edge of the bed, but doesn’t reach out to Sam. Not yet.

 

“Sammy.” Dean repeats, and his voice is not a sound his own ears recognize. “You’re just a kid, y’know? God. This all such bullshit, I get it. But…don’t let it do this.” He swallows, his heart hammering in his chest. “Don’t shut me out. Anyone else, kid, but not me. We’re in this together, okay? I’m all you got, and you’re all I got.”

 

Sam doesn’t turn around so Dean can read his lips, and he doesn’t trace anything for Dean to see. He curls in tighter on himself and sniffles.

 

Dean feels like someone punched him in the gut. He gently slides his hands under Sam’s body and lifts his kid onto his lap, still swaddled in enough blankets to make his body disappear. Sam’s eyes are closed tightly, like he’s refusing to believe this reality.

 

Dean can’t blame him.

 

“Look at me,” Dean pleads, and Sam does.

 

Dean could look at Sam’s eyes forever—hazel and endless, trusting of too many, curious about the world from the day they first opened.

 

“It’s you they want.” Dean begins, and Sam’s bottom lip trembles. He bites down on it, hard, and stares up at Dean with something that looked an awfully lot like betrayal clouding his beautiful eyes. “Hey. Let me finish,” he protests gently.

 

“It’s you they want. But they don’t know that we’re a package deal, and I am never, ever, going to let you get hurt.” Dean promises, fierce determination laced through his words. “If they think they’re getting anywhere near you,” He shakes his head. “Before, I was weak. I let them get too close. I was too careless.” He stares out the window, his grip tightening on Sam, red hot fury stirring in his gut. “Not anymore. I won’t let them touch you.”

 

Sam twists, and for a moment Dean thinks he’s trying to get away, but then he kicks free of the blankets, and sits up, back very straight, gaze very steady.

 

 _De,_ he mouths, and it’s enough.

 

It always has been.

 

Dean reaches up to cup Sam’s face in both of his calloused hands. “I want to kiss you.”

 

Sam blinks drowsily, as if he is drunk on the very idea. _So do it, then._

Dean does.

 

The first few brushes of lips are soft and hesitant, gentle promises that sit between them, but they soon turn hungry. Sam’s mouth is demanding, greedily sucking at Dean, as if begging for the love he already has, has always had. The love Dean couldn’t stop feeling for Sam even if he wanted to.

 

Sam’s pushing forward, his fingers splayed wide on Dean’s chest, covering as much of his big brother as he can as he _pushes_ until they’re both lying on the bed, Sam draped over Dean, their limbs intertwined so that Dean wasn’t even sure where he ended and Sam began. He didn’t want to know. Dean was more than happy to let them exist as one entity. He’d always felt that way anyway.

 

Sam pulls off Dean’s shirt and then its bare chest against chest and Dean can feel Sam’s heart thrumming like a hummingbird against its cage, begging to be let free, finds his own heart racing to match Sam’s. He’s high on the sensation that he can have this, and not be afraid. He gets this, gets to have Sam warm and pliant in his arms, gets to have his sunshine lips against his own as though they were born solely for the purpose of being together.

 

Dean never thought he’d get poetic about kissing, but dammit, here he is.

 

Sam makes a soft sound that shoots through every bone in Dean’s body like it does every time Sam makes a sound. Only this time, Sam seems to have realized it.

 

He pulls back. Dean can feel the heat of his body with drawl as he pushes himself into a sitting position, straddling Dean.

 

Dean keeps his eyes closed. He doesn’t want to see the betrayal on Sam’s face, doesn’t want to see his kid try so hard to speak again, to no avail. Can’t bear to see the disappointment.

 

So he surges up again and kisses Sam before he can try, before he can work himself up just to beat himself down. And this, this is what Dean does. He protects Sam from Sam and he protects Sam from Dean and he protects Sam from whoever the fuck else could ever hurt him and he’ll continue to do so until he dies trying.

 

Dean has known that he will die before Sam for a very, very long time. When he realized Sam was something else, something more…divine….it only solidified his resolve. Dean knew for a fact his job was to guard Sam until he was strong enough to stand alone. And he’d do it happily.

 

When he died for his little brother, he’d die with a smile on his face.

 

Dean half expects Sam to struggle—to fight it, to push Dean away and throw a fit. Instead, Sam kisses back with newfound passion, holding onto Dean like a limpet, eager as he parts his lips, tongue hesitatingly darting out to taste at Dean.

 

Dean grins against Sam’s lips. “Well, hello, there.” He murmurs between kisses. Kisses that are getting wetter, filthier—

 

Dean pulls back to breathe, panting. He can feel Sam doing the same against him, and their breath mingles. It’s a nice feeling.

 

Dean opens his eyes, too greedy to miss out on seeing Sam’s lips, bruised and wet from his kisses, and chokes, eyes widening as he stares in shock at his little brother.

 

There was a faint shimmering light, almost blue, that covered every inch of Sam’s skin, as though he were lit from the inside out. “Holymotherfuckingchrist.” He whispers in a rush of breath.

 

And maybe, Dean should have been more freaked out. It’s not every day one pulls away from a kiss to see their partner literally illuminated. And yet…he just finds it sort of hilarious. Funny in the sort of way that makes something in Dean step back and say, _“ah yes. Sam is like a lightbulb. What next?”_

 

And he can’t deny how stunning it makes Sam appear—beautiful in a way that Dean has never seen before, beautiful in a way that reminds Dean of Meredith. Unearthly. Strange. Makes you look twice, makes you want to stare. Makes you feel…small, in comparison to such magnificence.

 

Sam opens his eyes and frowns confusedly at Dean, obviously not realizing what’s happened.

 

In explanation, Dean grabs Sam’s hand and holds it up in front of Sam’s face.

 

“Kid,” Dean says, voice soft, trying to hide a smile. “You’re _glowing.”_

-

 

So, Sam lights up.

 

It’s apparently a thing.

 

-

Eventually, they stop kissing, too much in shock to really continue doing anything but sitting there, staring at each other.

 

Sam’s face when he sees his own hand is enough to wipe the smile and the amusement from Dean instantly.

 

Sam looks horrified. Disgusted.

 

“Sam,” Dean murmurs.

 

Sam doesn’t acknowledge Dean. Just wiggles his fingers and doesn’t blink.

 

“Sam.”

 

 

“Hey, kitten. Look at me.” Sam, finally, does. He looks confused, but Dean is glad to see that the majority of the horror has dissipated. “It’s okay.”

 

Sam shakes his head. _Normal people don’t glow._

Dean reaches a hand out to stroke one of Sam’s shimmering cheeks. “You’re not a normal person.”

 

Sam closes his eyes, but frowns at the words.

 

_Dean. I’m…I’m not completely human, am I?_

 

Something in Sam’s eyes when he mouths the words make Dean feel as though it were more a statement than a question.

Dean purses his lips and considers a way to answer that won’t make Sam feel like a monster. He’s not, not by anyone’s book. God, he’s the complete opposite.

 

“No.” He says finally, because he’s sick of lying, and Sam already knows, deep down. “No, kiddo. Not completely.”

 

Sam lets out a long breath, and Dean waits. Waits for tears, or hysterical laughter, or anger or…or anything, really.

 

What he doesn’t expect, is this: acceptance.

 

_The dreams. They mean something._

Dean presses his lips together, and reaches under the pillow of Sam’s bed to grab a notebook, and a pen. He pushes it towards Sam. “Tell me.”

 

 **I’ve been having dreams,** Sam writes. **Only, they don’t _feel_ like they’re just dreams. They feel like they mean something.**

He looks up at Dean, desperate for some sort of reassurance that he isn’t crazy. “Angels are prophetic, aren’t they?” Dean speculates, digging around in his head to think about what he knows about angels. His knowledge is limited. Tomorrow, he’d dedicate to research. He didn’t want to go into this completely blind if he didn’t have to. “Maybe they do.”

 

**It’s a woman and a man, in the dream. Telling me I’m going to do something really important. But I don’t know what it is, or how to do it, and maybe they don’t understand that I can’t even call my father to tell him to stay safe when he leaves for a hunt and maybe they don’t understand that I can’t even speak, much less save the w**

Dean snatches the pen out of Sam’s hands before he can finish. Firstly, because he doesn’t think Sam will be any better off than he was when he started writing it, and secondly, mostly, Dean doesn’t know if he can sit there and watch his little brother call himself down.

 

“You read the book.” Dean says, because it’s time to be honest. “Heaven and hell. They want you. You’re the _voiceless boy._ You know that, right?”

 

Sam looks up at him, face blank. _Yes._

Dean opens his mouth to say more, when three, deafening gun shots sound, piecing clean holes right through the front door.

 

Sam jumps up in shock and the glowing of his skin fades away like a blush from cheeks, and Dean immediately springs into action. This is familiar territory, out of all the emotional chaos.

They’re being attacked. He’s got to counter act. He’s got to protect Sam.

 

He switches into the role of brother/best friend/boyfriend into hell bent guardian seamlessly.

 

“C’mon,” He says, pulling Sam off the bed, and shooing him to hide under it. When Sam looks at him with betrayal and disbelief, Dean gives him a scolding glare.

 

“Whoever it is, trust me, Sam, it’s not me they want, okay? Stay put. I mean it.” He tightens his jaw and carefully creeps downstairs, grabbing Bobby’s rifle that sits ready at the end of the stairs. There is an odd silence, the anticipation carving a hole out in Dean’s gut as he waits, crouched behind the couch, gun poised at the door.

 

3 minutes pass, and then there is a voice.

 

“I’m here for Samuel Winchester.” It says. Dean doesn’t recognize it. Sounds human, but is probably an angel or demon. Neither can get into the house. Their bullets, however, can. Which means they can also hurt Sam.

 

Which means Dean’s got to get rid of them, one way or another.

 

He’s surprised that the demon/angel/whatever is alone. Normally, they travel in packs. At least, as far as Dean has seen. One won’t be too much of a match. He’s angry and determined enough that he could probably take on at least four of them before he bled out. He’s feeling confident and optimistic.

 

Dean is ready to kill.

 

“Not here at the moment. Can I take a message?” Dean calls back, narrowing his eyes as he hears footsteps pacing back and forth on Bobby’s ancient porch.

 

“Give me Samuel.”

 

“Over my dead body and past my pissed off spirit, fucker.” He says darkly. “Sam’s not taking guests.”

 

“I don’t want to kill you, but I will.” There are more gunshots, this time, at the door knob. It swings open, and Dean jumps up, before remembering that nothing supernatural can enter. He sends a silent prayer of thanks for this.

 

The thing steps in front of the threshold. It looks normal. Of course, they always do. Dean feels an ache of sympathy for the meat suit. The original owner of the body could have been a young bride, a young mother. Someone’s sister or daughter or best friend.

 

“Leave us alone.” Dean clicks the safety off the rifle loaded with rock salt. He hoped it was a demon. “Whatever you are.”

 

The woman looks affronted and her eyes flash black. Bingo. “Dean,” She says, glaring. “We should talk.”

 

“No.” Dean aims the rifle at her. “You should leave.”

 

Dean hears the light footfalls of Sam as he comes down the stairs slowly, hesitating.

 

The demon immediately hones in on him. “Samuel Winchester.” She says, and something in her voice sounds respectful in a way it hadn’t been while speaking to Dean. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

 

Sam goes to stand beside Dean, and Dean steps between the two, pushing himself in front.

 

“I told you to _stay upstairs.”_ He hisses. “Go.”

 

Sam lifts his chin and doesn’t move an inch.

 

Leave it to his little brother to be the most stubborn bitch. “Damn you, kid.” Dean huffs.

 

“Your father has been taken hostage.” The demon says.

 

“We know.” Dean replies. They’d figured as much. No surprise. Situation like this, a war like this…it was bound to be fought dirty.

 

“Bobby Singer along with him.” The demon is looking at Dean, but at Sam.

 

Sam’s mouth falls open, surprised. This, they didn’t know. Though, Dean had suspected something bad when Bobby didn’t call.

 

“John and Bobby are being tortured for information, each finger being flayed, each little nail being pulled off with tweezers. They haven’t stopped screaming. No—that’s a lie. They stopped when their voices gave out. Which, surprisingly, wasn’t for a while. Good set of lungs on those two, you know.”

 

“Stop.” Dean growls out, a demand. He closes one eye to aim the rock salt.

 

“I can’t believe they haven’t said anything yet. Boss isn’t going to be happy about that, you know. Doesn’t like wasting time. Won’t be long now before he just…” She shrugs, grinning crookedly. “Kills them.”

 

Dean shoots.

 

She howls in rage, body staggering back, but she keeps going—of course she does.

 

“And, Sam,” She pants, holding herself up against the door frame. “You wanna know why all this is happening?” She laughs hysterically. “It’s _all your fault.”_

Sam shakes his head. “No.” He says, and Dean is so proud of how sure he sounds, his voice so lovely and strong that something inside Dean sings with joy.

 

Sam raises his head and closes his eyes, and Dean closes his, too. He knows what’s coming next. He’s not sure how he knows, but he does.

 

White, blinding light flashes through the entire house for a split second, and then there is silence.

 

When Dean open his eyes again, it’s just in time to see the body of the woman drop like dead weight, her eyes burnt out of her skull.

-

The woman howls in agony.

 

Sam steps forward to help her, but Dean grabs his wrist and pulls her back. “No.” He says. “You can’t go out there. And neither can I. The second we step out of this door, we become vulnerable. No doubt there are  hundred pairs of eyes on this house right now, waiting for such opportunity.”

 

Sam stills.

 

The woman stops struggling.

 

Sam turns to Dean very slowly. His voice is gone. _I did that._

 

Dean swallows. “We couldn’t save her. I couldn’t let your risk yourself.”

 

_I meant to do that._

Dean presses his lips together and doesn’t reply. He doesn’t know what to say.

 

_I meant to kill her._

“You meant to get rid of the demon.” Dean concedes. “And you did.”

 

_There was a human inside her. I could feel it. And I didn’t care. I still killed her. She’s dead, Dean. She has a daughter, just a year old. She won’t remember her mother. Her husband has to raise her alone._

“Sam. Sammy, I need you to take a deep breath with me, okay?” Dean demonstrates.

 

Sam follows, though his breathing is much shakier.

 

“It’s done now, okay? It’s done, baby boy. It’s okay.” Dean takes Sam into his arms and Sam lets himself be held.

-

That night, at 3am, Dean wakes up to the sound of Sam sniffling. He follows the sound to the bathroom and finds Sam staring at his reflection, tears running down his face.

-

Dean carries him back to bed.

-

Sam doesn’t sleep.

-

Neither does Dean.

But they both pretend, for the consolation of it all.

-

Sam’s journal sits, forgotten, just outside the window where it’d been thrown.

 

It begins to rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thank you for reading! Tell me what you think! I love comments. Love, love, LOVE them. Trust me.
> 
> As always, come check me out on tumblr at wincestplease ! I'd love to talk about headcanons, and I'm also taking prompts!! 
> 
> 'til next chapter! xox


	23. For the Love I'd Fallen On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean pulls Sam in close. “Was just a bad dream,” He reassures Sam, but he’s sure they both know it’s a lie. Maybe, though, just maybe, if he says it enough times he’ll wake up in the only heaven Dean has ever known: a dusty motel room in the middle of a town with a name he won’t remember by the time they leave, Sam curled around him as tightly as space allows, with the soundtrack of his night the steady beating of his kids heart. “Nothing but.”
> 
> It was a lie, and he was sure they both knew it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience! I'm now out of school for summer, so expect quicker updates! Yay!! I'm hoping to complete the fic entirely before Christmas. Pray for me, my friends. Imma need it.
> 
> Hope you enjoy ^.^

**“She didn't need to understand the meaning of life; it was enough to find someone who did, and then fall asleep in his arms and sleep as a child sleeps, knowing that someone stronger than you is protecting you from all evil and all danger."-Paulo Coelho, _Brida_**

\---

“John Winchester’s boys, huh?” Robert hums, and Megan wraps her pale fingers around her beer, tapping black nails against the glass, hearing the pleasing chiming sound each nail makes as it comes into contact with the glass.

When he doesn’t say more for a while, she impatiently replies with, “Yes. Sam and Dean.” Her red hair falls into her eyes a little, and she brushes it away, impatient. Didn’t he know she had things to do? Sam and Dean could be getting further and further away or deeper and deeper into trouble, and she was here, having a beer. 

Wasn’t right.

Megan is not normally an impatient person, but right now, she could peel off her own skin with the urge to be doing something more productive. 

Sam and Dean could be fighting for their lives, but the entire world continues on as if everything important were not about to be lost. The very idea that they could be dead and she wouldn't even know it chills her more than the gust of cool air from the door as it opens and closes with the traffic of hunters. 

That seems to ring a bell, and Robert frowns, nodding. “Yes, yes, Samuel and Dean. Never met them myself, but…” He looks out the window slowly, as though he’s wishing to be somewhere else. Megan doesn’t doubt it. She knows the intense look in her eyes is probably intimidating for a sweet guy like Robert. 

“But?” She prompts. Rob had never been so reluctant to share information with her before, and she doesn’t understand why he is doing so now. She can only take as there is something to hide, something bad. It makes her uneasy.

“But I’ve heard lots of ‘em recently.” Rob murmurs, lowering his voice. Megan has to strain to hear him over the low music and chatter in the background of the bar. “Sam especially.”

Her interest is peaked. “That so?” she asks. Her stomach turns, thinking of the predictions Meredith had made about Sam being in danger. “What about him?”

He shrugs, and leans back, and Megan can tell she’s losing him.

“Rob,” She says, voice desperate. “Please. I’m grasping at nothing, here. I need to know more, it’s extremely important. Lives are at stake.”

Rob takes pity on her, as he should. After all, Megan’s wide green eyes had always proved effective against Jake--he could never say no if she used them just right.

“They say he’s dangerous. That’s all I know, alright? It’s not safe to be talkin’ like this about it. You got no idea how much is riding over his head.” He leans in once more, glancing around them nervously. She takes note of the way his always steady hands shake. “There’s talk that that boy is gonna end the world as we know it.”

Megan steps away, nodding. She knew as much. “And just how would he do that?" She asks, making sure she sounds skeptic enough so that he wouldn't realize she already knew all about it.

Rob presses his lips together in a tight line. "I don't know," He says, glancing at the worn bar table. "And I hope we never find out."

This entire consultation was pointless. Megan has found nothing new. "Anything else?" She prompts hopefully.

Rob shakes his head, and Megan turns to go, having already wasted too much time, but he reaches over the table and grabs her arm. She turns, glaring expectantly at the hand on her wrist until he releases her, something apologetic in his old face.

“Megan,” He says, as he lets go. “If you know Samuel--”

She raises an eyebrow and Rob sighs. “Just be careful.”

She sighs, too, and nods once. “Careful isn't really in the dictionary, Rob.” She mutters, and with that, she leaves.

-

_There is bright, white light, and a woman, and Sam knows he is dreaming with a certainty that is absolute. He's asleep, and Dean's got to be somewhere close by, and so it's okay. Dean will wake him if it gets bad. Dean will keep him safe._

_ Sam hasn’t seen this woman before, but she’s beautiful, and he somehow knows instantly that she is an angel. There is nothing intimidating or terrifying about her, though. Not like the other angels he'd seen, in presses suits of neutral colors. She wears a gauzy white dress that drapes over her as if the wind had fashioned the garment itself.  _

_Her hair is black, cut in a modern style that is longer on one side and shorter on the other, framing her face, hovering just above her shoulders, with brown Epicanthic eyes that are warm and kind. Her skin is the palest shade of ivory Sam has ever seen, it nearly blends with her white dress._

_She's lovely._

_He wants to trust her, but recent events have made him hesitant with whom he trusts and he finds himself shying away from her, pressing his hands into the pocket of his jeans._

_“Sam,” She says, and her voice is the most beautiful he’s heard, besides Dean's. Like wind chimes on a breezy day. “Samuel.”_

_Sam tilts his head in curiosity. “Who’re you?” He asks. He sounds the same as he always does. Strange, that he is getting used to his own voice, even if he can only have it in dreams._

_“My name is Dina,” She introduces, smiling with a pull of pale lips, revealing white teeth._

_“An angel.” He verifies. He wants to be sure._

_“Yes,” Her smile widens, and her eyes crinkle. She looks like she could be a mother, the perfect kind of mother that holds you when you’re sad and gives you good advice and makes the kind of chocolate chip cookies that are soft and gooey and make you feel safe. “I’m the angel of Learning, actually.” She looks at Sam, then, a sadness overcoming her unearthly face. “I’m the angel that taught humans to speak.”_

_And well, isn’t that a kick in the ass. Really, the irony of Sam's life amazes even him sometimes._

_“Why didn’t you teach me to speak?” Sam says, a little bitterly._

_Dina sighs. “Samuel Winchester, you were meant to become mute, in order for everything to work out as it did. He was very specific about that.”_

_“What do you mean by ‘everything’?” He asks, his hands clenching into fists. He was tired of everyone being so vague. Thus far, every dream had left him with more questions than answers and frankly, he’s sick of it. “How much of my life was premeditated because I’m some sort of sick mutant? And who is ‘he’?”_

_“I know you remember the world the Ghul created for you inside your head,” Dina murmurs, smoothing her hands down the skirt of her dress. It's such a humanlike gesture that Sam is taken aback for a moment by it.  “Dean hardly spoke to you. You two weren’t…” her eyes sparkle, lips twitching upwards curiously, as if she knows a secret--an amusing one. “as close.”_

_Sam ponders this, remember all too well the coldness he’d felt from Dean in the Ghul’s world. He couldn’t ever imagine that being his reality, couldn’t think about never knowing what it felt like to have one person understand you through and through, even without words._

_Without_ words _._

_It makes sense. Dean had always been Sam’s protector, his guardian, his rock. Dean was Sam’s constant, his everything. All this, because Dean understood Sam when no one else could see past his inability to speak._

_“My muteness was to ensure that we’d be close?” He asks, cynical. It makes too much sense to be true. Everything else about Sam's life for the past four months has been so confusing. For something to be simple, it seems...impossible._

_Dina only smiles, a knowing look on her pretty face. “A lot depends on the bond you and Dean have. He’s the one who’s supposed to keep you safe throughout all of this--” She makes a vague gesture in the air with her delicate hands. Before she can finish, Sam does for her._

_"All this bullshit?"_

_Dina sighs somewhat fondly. "You humans always did love to curse." She muses. "But yes. Essentially."_

_Sam is only growing angrier. “Why should Dean have to give up his life to protect me?” He snaps. “Doesn’t he deserve something bigger?” Because to Sam, it doesn’t make_ sense.  _They’ve got it all backwards._

_Dean is the amazing one. He’s the one that’s supposed to be born for great things. He’s got the smile that could make someone back off the ledge they’d been teetering over for years. His laugh sounds like the open arms of paradise, and Sam loves him, wants something else for him than to have to fight this war as a pawn destined to die for Sam._

_“To Dean, protecting you is the only thing he’s ever wanted. He’ll die happy knowing it was to protect you.” Dina says._

_Sam hates how composed she sounds talking so casually about Dean’s death, as if Dean no longer existing wouldn’t be the end of everything that was. "He's not going to die for me." And the way Sam's voice gets eerily calm is satisfying to his own ears._

_He sees Dina shiver, but she doesn't interrupt._

_"I'll die for him before I ever let him sacrifice himself for me." And just like that, it's resolved to Sam. He just has to make sure that while Dean is busy trying to save him, Sam will be busy saving Dean. May the best brother win._

_He remembers all his earlier questions, and the anger returns just as easily as it had faded. “Who is_ he?” Sam _demands. “What do you mean_ he  _was very specific?”_

_“God, of course.” Dina grins. Her teeth are white and straight. “The plans were…very detailed. Each angel was given very precise instructions as to what we were to do with you.”_

_“What am I supposed to do?” Sam demands, his hands shaking. “No one has told me what the hell I’m supposed to do besides kill my brother and apparently save the world! Which, by the way, I never asked for! I never asked for any of this!”_

_Dina takes pity on him, reaching out a hand to lay it gently on his shoulder. He’s tempted to shake it off until he’s given answers, too angry to take any sort of comfort, but he remains still, focusing on his breathing like Dean would want him to. A panic attack wouldn't do anyone good at this point, even if it was just a dream one._

_“Sam.” she says, making his name sound like a complete sentence. “You’ve got a very important task. Possibly in the entire universe.” She stares at him, completely even. “You’re going to save the world.”_

_Sam wants to laugh at that. Just because he keeps hearing it doesn't mean it makes it any more believable. He’s just a boy, mute and gangly and still trying sort out his taboo love for his brother and his father complex and he’s not even sure he believes in God never mind the fact that when Dean was hospitalized in New York Sam prayed and prayed and prayed to a God he wasn’t sure existed. A God that, supposedly, had plans for him._

_“How?” Sam demands, only it comes out more choked than he’d expected or wanted._

_Dina stares up at the sky of bright, white light like she’s asking permission to tell Sam._

_Perhaps she is._

_Eventually, she looks back down at him, nodding to herself. “You’re the only human strong enough.”_

_“To do_ what.”  _He’s had enough of beating around the bush. It’s his life._

_“Shut down hell for good.”_

_-_

Sam wakes up laughing.

Or, trying to, anyway, mouth open in a silent grin, fingers twisting in Dean’s shirt, grasping desperately.

Dean has to pry him off, hold his limbs to his sides like he’s the glue keeping Sam together.

“Hey,” Dean says, demanding Sam look at him with the authority he pushed into his voice. Sam does, eyes wild.

“Nightmare?” He asks like it’s a question, but he knows.

Sam’s eyes slide off to the side of the room, somewhere out the window. His mouth is moving too fast for Dean to read his lips, no longer looking amused.

Dean grabs one of Sam’s hands and presses it to his own chest.

“Tell me,” He says softly. “Slowly.”

Sam traces the letters four times over—there is no way Dean can deny what he’s sure Sam is saying, but he’s got to ask anyway.

“You’ve…got to  _shut down hell?”_ he repeats, voice filled with uncertainty. Hoping he’s wrong. This will be the first time Dean hears of the actual  _way_ Sam's got to 'save the world'. He doesn't like it one bit. 

Sam laughs. It’s silent, of course, and it’s a little terrifying. A lot terrifying.

Shut down hell.

What does that even mean?

He doesn’t have the strength to ponder it right now, because it’s somewhere around 3am and in Dean's book 3am is the time for cuddling and sleeping and reassuring kisses. He's done this enough times to know that this problem will still be there when he wakes up. Sam's sanity might not. He needs comfort. 

Which, luckily for them both, is one of Dean's renewable resources. Completely endless, when it comes to Sam.  

Dean pulls Sam in close. “Was just a bad dream,” He reassures Sam, but he’s sure they both know it’s a lie. Maybe, though, just maybe, if he says it enough times he’ll wake up in the only heaven Dean has ever known: a dusty motel room in the middle of a town with a name he won’t remember by the time they leave, Sam curled around him as tightly as space allows, with the soundtrack of his night the steady beating of his kids heart. “Nothing but.”

It was a lie, and he was sure they both knew it.

“Sleep, kitten,” Dean murmurs.

He holds Sam until he does.

-

When Dean wakes up, Sam isn’t in bed, but he knows instantly that nothing is wrong; the padding of Sam’s bare feet rummaging around the room is as recognizable as the sound of Dean’s own voice.

The room is still dark. The clock on the nightstand reads 5:34AM.

Dean sits up slowly, the covers pooling around at his waist, already aching to be close to Sam again. He didn’t sleep much last night, too worried about what Sam’s dream had been about.

Sam turns at the sound of Dean’s yawn. He’s wearing jeans and one of Dean’s sweaters. It looks good on him. 

“Why’re you awake?” Dean murmurs, rubbing his eyes. He needed a shower. A hot one. And lots of kisses. 

Sam shrugs, and steps aside, revealing a packed duffle.

Dean’s heart stops.  _No. No, no, nononono--_

“Sam--”

_I want to find Dad and Bobby._ Sam mouths, sticking up his chin in defiance.

“No.”

Sam raises his eyebrow and slings the duffle over his shoulder.  _If you won’t come, I’ll go alone._

Now Dean is fully awake. He bolts from bed and is blocking the doorway before Sam can take a step. “Like hell you are.” He grits. He’s aware he’s clad in his boxer briefs and nothing else. He doesn’t care. “You’ll be killed before you’re out of the driveway.”

Sam isn’t thinking logically. Sam isn’t thinking at all. He can’t be.

If he was, he would, like Dean did, see that this plan was utterly suicidal. There were  _things_ watching them, demons and angels and who knows what the fuck else.

_They were taken because of me,_ Sam mouths, his lips sharp and tight.  _If that demon was right—_

“Demons lie, Sam. That’s all they do.” Dean interjects. His heart races at the terrifying determination in Sam’s eyes. Dean knows that look well—and not once has Sam ever not done something he claimed to do with that same glint in his hazel eyes.

This can only lead to trouble.

_Regardless, they’re gone. And I’ve got to get them back._

Dean stares at  him for a long time. “You’ll die.”

Dean’s worst nightmare comes true when Sam’s eyes slide off to the side and he mouths,  _so?_

And that.

Fucking  _that._

Because Sam had just disregarded the single most important fact in Dean’s life, Sam had just dismissed the fact as if his being alive  _wasn’t_ the center of the entire fucking universe. 

Dean can't imagine a world where he doesn't get to take care of Sam, hold Sam, see his smile or feel his laughter. 

“You’re selfish.” Dean says, and his voice is completely even. “You’d go out there, offer yourself up on a silver platter just to free dad and Bobby?” He clenches his hands into fists when they begin to shake. “Where does that leave me? What am I supposed to do then, huh? What the fuck is my purpose if it’s not keeping your skinny ass out of trouble all the time?”

Finally, his voice breaks, but his eyes remain dry. He’s given so much to this, he’s got nothing left to offer up, no piece of himself that hasn't been broken for his baby brother and he’d do it all over again a million times, to keep Sammy with him. “If I’m not around to watch out for you,” Dean’s voice trembles. “then I don’t want to be around at all. And if you do this—if you walk out that door right now--”

_I can protect myself. I’m not the chubby 5 year old kid I used to be, Dean._

And Dean fucking knows that, because now Sam is lean and all limbs he hasn’t quite grown into yet, and shaggy hair and bright eyes and stubborn expressions and  _dimples,_ and he’s not at all the round little kid that used to stumble after Dean as if he was some superhero.

Dean leans against the doorframe, side eyeing Sam. “Your first year of school was hell, y’know? I mean, you were hands down the cutest kid in your kindergarten class—and the smartest—but it was the first time in your entire life where we were apart for even a few hours, and you weren’t having any of it. You cried all day, wouldn’t stop for anything. At recess, I’d have to climb over the fence to the kindergarten side and lift you over to my side so you could sit with me, and when the bell rang and I had to go back to my class, and you had to go back to yours,” Dean shakes his head, smiling softly. “You’d cry again.”

Sam looks confused, but he drops the duffle, listening.

“Of course, you couldn’t speak, or write, so no one knew what you wanted. But one day you pointed to a picture in story book about a big brother, and your teacher was smart enough to realize that you were crying for me.” He scratched at the back of his neck shyly. “I ended up having to take you into my class with me, with your crayons and coloring books, and you sat in my lap for a few days while I was in my own class, and you were quite content with that,” He chuckled, but it’s a little forced. “It was so easy to keep you safe, then. A fist to a bully, a hard kick in the ribs some asshole and you were back in my arms.” He shakes his head at the memories. “Think I can punch out Heaven and Hell?” Dean asks halfheartedly, turning to Sam.

He’s not really expecting a reply, but he gets one anyways. It’s Sam smile, and it’s beautiful.

_For me,_ Sam mouths, face wry,  _I don’t think there’s anything you_ can’t  _do._

-

Sam is always right.

-

“End the world?” Jake whistles, sipping his beer. “Samuel Winchester. Doesn’t sound like a very threatening name for someone who’s going to end the world.”

“He’s the least threatening kid I’ve ever seen!” Megan agrees,  tying her hair into a neat top knot. “He's skin and bones, maybe 90 pounds soaking wet. I just don’t  understand how someone as quiet and shy as Sam could  _end the entire world.”_ She’d come home from Omen’s with nothing to show except for confirmation of what Megan had already known to be true. Jake wasn’t happy about her going alone, but he fully knew she could handle herself, and he was too worried about the possible apocalypse to fret about Megan going to a shady bar alone. 

 She tucks her legs up under her in the plushy recliner and watches him. "I don't know what to do, Jake." She says unevenly. She wills herself not to cry, forcing the tears back. "I'm scared. For him. For us. For..." she shakes her head, making a vague gesture in the air. "everyone, I guess."

Jake sighs and sets down his beer, scoops her up into his arms easily and tucks her back in onto his lap as if she were just a child. She finds comfort in it, curling up and pressing her face into his chest.

"Oh, Meggie," He sighs again, wrapping his arms around her. They're strong, and safe, and his hands are just the rough side of callous when they tug on the elastic in her hair to let it fall loose around her shoulders once more, just so he can ruffle it up. The gesture makes her feel oddly loved. "You give so much yourself to everyone else, you're not going to have any left for yourself." He tells her, pressing kisses to her temples. "You've got to promise me that you're going to take a break from trying to find them."

Megan swallows. "You can't do that.  _I_ can't do that."

Jake shakes his head, pressing his lips together. "You're running yourself into the ground over these boys." He says sternly. "No more. You've got to sleep tonight. 8 hours minimum."

She blanches at that. She can't remember the last time she's had 8 hours of sleep. The very idea of it seems unrealistic in all of this chaos, but she doesn't protest it right away. It sounds good. Her exhausted body is ready to collapse into their queen mattress at a moments notice.

"What else?" She asks grimly, knowing there was more.

He rests his chin on the top of her head. "I'm not asking you to forget about the Winchesters--or the apocalypse for that matter. I'm asking you to research in moderation. No more forgetting to eat or pacing the room all day." His voice is so soft it's nearly a whisper. "And you are not  _ever,_ ever packin' up and leaving me to chase those boys across the country." He tells her, and his arms tighten around her, as if that could keep her from ever leaving him.

"You got a strong lead, you wanna go find 'em, sure. But you take me with you, Meggie."

Megan hides her sad smile against his neck. "Okay, J." She allows. "Got it."

"Do you promise me?"

"Sure."

"Say it."

"I pro--"

The blaring, insistent ringtone on Megan's cell phone interrupts them, demanding attention. She gives Jake an apologetic shrug and digs out her phone from her pocket, freezing when she sees Dean's name on the call display. 

"Megan." Says the voice, and yeah, it's him.

"My god," She says, jumping from Jake's lap to pace the room, already breaking a promise she'd made to him. "Please tell me you're okay." 

"We're both fine. But we need your help." Dean says curtly. Then he scoffs and says, "Yes, Sam. I know." There is no background noise or voice, of course, but Megan bets Sam is probably sitting somewhere close enough to Dean that he can reach out and touch whenever he pleases, somewhere Dean would stare at him while on the phone because Sam is the axis of Dean's world, and everything comes after him. 

"What is it?" Megan asks immediately. Dean sounds frustrated. 

"We can't talk about it over the phone," Dean murmurs. "It's not safe. I'll text you coordinates off a disposable phone. I need you to meet me there."

Megan frowns. "I don't understand."

"Come prepared to fight. Bring your husband. We'll need all the hunters we can get."

Megan's jaw tightens and she doesn't agree to anything on Jake's behalf. "Yes. Of course."

They both hang up without a goodbye. 

Megan thinks it's because they've both had too many of those already. 

She tucks her phone back into her pocket.

Jake purses his lips. "Who was that?"

"My uncle." Megan lies instantly. Wherever Dean was meeting her, it was going to be a place more dangerous than an American public school.

"Eugene?" He frowns, but the surprise in his face and voice are both genuine--he believes her. It makes her feel sick to her very core. "You haven't heard from him in years."

"I know." Megan murmurs, her phone buzzing in her pocket, announcing Dean's text. "He told me he has some stuff of my mothers that he thinks I'd like. Wants me to come down and get it."

Jake sighs, shaking his head fondly. "His heart is in the right place. Are you going to go?"

"Yes." Megan replies, searching his face for suspicion she doesn't find. "I think it'll be good break for me, to concentrate on something other than Sam and Dean." 

"Want me to come?" The way he asks, his face so open and trusting....Megan hates herself in that moment, sees the way Jake sees her and knows she can never be that.

"I think I'd better go alone." Anything to protect him. Anything. 

"When're you leaving?"

"Tonight." Nothing she wouldn't do to keep Jake safe.

Jake blinks, stunned. "You sure?" He verifies, surprised. "That's short notice, Meggie."

"I know. S'okay." Megan murmurs, heading upstairs to pull out a suitcase. She hastily packs sturdier clothing, comfortable things that she'll be able to move and fight in. 

Jake follows her, leaning in the doorframe. "Meggers," He murmurs, the nickname sending memories of the first time they officially met, while Megan was in the hospital recovering from the Ghul attack. She'd introduced herself to him while lying in a hospital cot and he'd never left her side, choosing to pass the time by coming up with as many nicknames for her as he possibly could. "Slow down. C'mon, just...take a break, okay? It's going to get dark soon. Why don't you just head out tomorrow morning?" 

She turns to her husband, and smiles sadly. "I'm so sorry, Jacob." She sighs. "He's expecting me tonight. Besides, you know I love driving in the dark."

"I know you love putting yourself in harms way." He frets, watching her throw things into her suitcase, including their wedding photo from her night stand.

When she's all packed up, she zips the suitcase closed and turns to head downstairs, walking right into Jake, who hadn't moved the entire time.

"Megan." He catches her face in both his hands, searching her eyes for--she doesn't know what, exactly, but something he doesn't find. "Why does it feel like you're leaving me?" 

Megan wants to cry. But because her act calls for it, she chuckles softly, and pecks his cheek, then his lips. "Because you're a mother hen, and I'm leaving your nest." She kisses him again, deeper this time, and he spins to press her back against the wall, her luggage falling off to the side, forgotten. 

"I love you." He tells her, and it sounds desperate, like he's scared she'll forget.

"I love you too," She replies, and ruffles his hair one more time before scooping up the handle of her roll luggage and heading out to the car. 

She had no clue of what awaited her at the coordinates on her phone, but she knew that whatever it was, if Dean was asking for help, it couldn't be good. 

With a sigh, Megan revs the engine.

Jacob watches her disappear down the dirt road. 

This is a day he won't soon forget. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank's for reading!! Just wanted to let you know that your comments mean the absolute world to me. I love reading them, replying to them, and discussing the fic with ya'll. You're all so kind, I can't believe it. This would be nowhere without the amazing support I've seen. I can't even begin to say. Just...ugh. You rock.
> 
> Next update should come ASAP. Things are reaching a climax, people...! 
> 
> dun dun duuuuuh 
> 
> As always, feel free to yell at me about this fic or anything at my tumblr, wincestplease  
> I'd love to talk to you ^.^


	24. I'm Certain That I'm Yours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam looks down, and he doesn't mouth anything or write in the plain notebook to his left, but Dean doesn't need words to understand what he's saying. 
> 
> Sometimes it just is that way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ugh. This update took me a MONTH. I am SO sorry. Ya'll are literally my life. Every word of this fic is all your fault. You're way too supportive for your own good.
> 
> I love you. So much. Thank you thank you thank you.
> 
> Also: this chapter is what I think a lot of you have been waiting for ^.^

 

**"No bird soars too high if he flies with his own wings." - _William Blake_**

**_-_ **

 

"Megan is coming." Dean says, hanging up the phone and turning to Sam, who is begrudgingly nibbling on toast. It was a battle to get him to eat something, but Dean managed, by some miracle. It wasn't the breakfast of champions, but Dean is willing to take whatever he'll get. Sam is eating. That's important. 

 

It's normal, and normal is  _good._  


 

Sam looks up from the toast slathered in peanut butter, and frowns.  _I told you not to call her._  


 

"Sorry, your highness, but we need backup. Had to call for your loyal subjects to defend the kingdom." Dean side eyes Sam, and Sam snorts at him in reply, amusement playing in his eyes. "Mhm. Laugh it up, princess." Dean is glad Sam is  _laughing it up._ He's more glad than he'd like to admit. Sam's eyes are bright. 

 

He's beautiful. 

 

  
_Y'know,_ Sam mouths, his smile fading as he watches Dean curiously.  _A lot of things make sense, now that I know what I am._  


Dean grinds his teeth, his lighthearted mood fading fast. Of course, the transition onto more difficult topics was a given considering their situation. "Don't say that like you're some sort of monster hybrid. You're human, Sam." He can already tell where this is going to go, Sam doubting himself.

 

Sam hating himself.

 

Sam doesn't react to that other than a raised eyebrow. He continues without otherwise acknowledging Dean had spoken.  _My injuries have...always healed just a little bit faster than yours. My dreams have always been realistic, or have been warnings of things that actually happen--_  


 

"You never told me about your dreams--"

Before Dean can finish yelling that Sam had never once mentioned that he'd been having premonitions, Sam is already moving on, swiftly mouthing out words.

 

_I was able to visit you with an out of body experience while my true body was unconscious when the Ghul had me.  I could hear you talking to me while under. I was self aware. And I didn't kill myself to wake up. That...isn't normal. I'm not normal._

  
"Sam." Dean says sharply, his voice laced with a ring of unquestionable authority--something he gets from their father. It echos in the small kitchen, bouncing of the walls to come back to them both. "Stop."

 

And, to his surprise, Sam does. He looks up, startled out of his epiphany, hazel eyes wide. 

 

"You're human. You've got a little angel blood in you, so what?" Dean tries for relaxed, but he's too worked up and knows he doesn't achieve the relaxed tone he'd aimed for. 

 

Sam looks down, and he doesn't mouth anything or write in the plain notebook to his left, but Dean doesn't need words to understand what he's saying. 

 

Sometimes it just  _is_ that way.

 

"You're right. You  _aren't_ normal. You never have been. But I'm not normal either. Hell, the only jobs I've ever had was taking care of you and killing monsters." He cracks a smile and approaches Sam, kicking the bag Sam haphazardly packed out of the way to plop into a kitchen chair next to Sam, hoping that his kid won't really know what that means, won't fully understand how against Sam going he really is. "If that's not crazy, I don't know what is. I mean, kid. We're...I just. You have to know that this," He makes a vague gesture with his arm between the two of them. "isn't normal for brothers." 

 

Sam looks up, watching him. He looks unsettled. 

 

  
_Is it wrong? For us to be how we are?_ Sam mouths.

 

He seems very young to Dean in that moment, and innocent and trusting and Dean couldn't stop loving him if both their lives depended on it. If the universe depended on it.

 

Which, hell--it just might. 

 

Dean's heart skips. "No!" He cries, standing. "No, it's not bad, or wrong, or ugly. I mean--do you think it is?" Dean asks, as he reaches out to cup Sam's cheek, worried that he's screwed up, that Sam doesn't want this after all, that maybe he's realized the reality and the fact that they might never be able to be together outside of this little dystopian utopia. 

 

Sam nuzzles Dean's hand and closes his eyes, but doesn't mouth or write anything more.

 

Once more, Dean understands Sam's silence. 

 

"C'mere, Sammy." Dean says softly, reclaiming his hand in favor of opening his arms. 

 

Sam smiles a little shyly and sets down his toast, leaving just the crust behind as Sam often did, and settles himself into Dean's lap, straddling him so he can push his face into Dean's neck and breathe him in, like that alone is the only pain killer he needs for any of this bullshit headache. 

 

"We're going to be okay," Dean says for what feels like the millionth time. A million and one lies, told in this kitchen, in this house, from Dean's lips. 

 

Sam's finger traces letters on Dean's chest. 

 

**Megan is going to get hurt. _You_ are going to get hurt worse. Or **

It takes Sam a few seconds before he finishes with:  **Or I'll lose you.**  


Dean purses his lips thoughtfully and strokes a comforting pattern up and down the bumpy ridges of Sam's spine. To think that Sam's entire life depended on something so delicate. "Is that a premonition?" 

 

He can feel Sam swallow nervously.  **I don't know.**  


Dean strokes his fingers through Sam's shaggy hair. John would be pestering him about bringing Sam in to get his hair cut, but things like that aren't important anymore, and Dean likes it long, anyway. 

 

He doesn't promise that he's going to be okay just yet--it's too soon to sugar coat it, and it feels better to just let that sit. Dean might die. Dean....might not get another armful of his kid, warm and pliant, ever again. 

 

He holds Sam closer.

 

He's going to keep him safe. 

 

"This is a stupid plan." Dean says quietly, gently working the tangles in Sam's hair that are a result of his restless sleep. "But you're right--we need to get Dad and Bobby out of the heart of the fire. We'll need everyone we can get." Despite the fact that Dean would die, would live, for his kid, they're still both just that--kids. And it'd be nice to have Bobby's warm smile and soft cursing while they figure this out. And it wouldn't be half bad to have John's expertise, either. They were going to need every resource available. 

 

Sam sniffles his agreement, and Dean kisses the top of his head. Sam might never forgive him for what he's going to do, but that doesn't matter, as long as Sam is around to hate him. As long as Sam is here,  is safe, is alive. Then Dean has done his job. 

 

"Megan should be here by tomorrow." Dean tells him. 

 

**What are we going to do today?**

Dean smiles, considering. This could possibly be the last day he gets of Sam. He doesn't let himself dwell over that thought, or else he'd be a mess of a man. Instead, he stares out the window at the grass, frosted over with the chill of the night. Light little snowflakes pepper down from the sky to melt with all their earlier brothers and sisters, the same way Sam melts into Dean's arms.

 

New Years Eve is approaching fast, and Dean wants Sam to see it, to be here for it. To enjoy it. The thought is in vain. Sam loves him too much. 

 

He pushes that thought away and nuzzles behind Sam's ear, because he wants to, and he can. "What do you want to do?" 

 

  
**What are my options?** He counters, fingers working slowly, lazily, against Dean's chest to form his thought. Dean's skin comes alive like fire under the touch. 

 

Playfully, or maybe not playfully at all, Dean nibbles at Sam's ear lobe. He honestly doesn't mean for his voice to be that husky when it comes out; "We can do whatever you want."

 

At that, Sam looks up, eyes wide, asking Dean if it's what he's thinking about, asking Dean if he means it, if he  _really_ means it.

 

It's happening. Dean wants it, and he's pretty sure Sam does, too. 

 

In answer, Dean trails wet kisses down his neck, sucking and biting marks where it won't be a secret to anyone just who Sam belongs to.

 

Dean is tired of keeping secrets. 

 

"Anything." Dean repeats, and Sam lets out a needy breath.

 

Dean definitely means it.

 

-

 

Megan drives. It's easy enough, a mindless following of the law, swallowing the silence whole. The darkness that blankets her is a comfort, and when it turns to morning, she pushes sunglasses onto her nose and doesn't stop for breakfast.

 

She doesn't stop for anything, really. 

 

Jake thinks she is with family, thinks she is remembering how things were a long while ago, when really, Megan has never lived more in the future.  What she is going to do in the coming few days could change the future of a lot of people. 

 

She lied to him. She betrayed his trust. 

 

She hates herself for it.

 

When-- _if--_ she returns from this, she doesn't know how she'll be able to look him in the eyes as he tells her he loves her. Because, and Megan knows this, when Jake finds out, he'll be angry, sure, but he'll still love her. And maybe that would hurt a hell of a lot more.

 

She'll never be able to lose Jacob's love, not if she does a million things wrong for every one thing she does right, and that is so much worse than knowing she'll go back to her husband hating her. 

 

To receive love she doesn't deserve is its own sort of hell. 

 

Megan stops once, for gas, an energy drink, and a chocolate bar. 

 

And she keeps going.

 

-

"I wonder who'll get him first." John's voice is gentle in the careful silence of the two men.

They have finally been left alone, exhausted and injured from relentless torturing. All of Bobby and John's fingers had been broken so that they are purple and bruised with the damage.

 

The demon had left in frustration after a nasty snarl about their stubbornness and how they'd find Sam without them. 

 

Neither of them had said it aloud, but they were both afraid the demon would be right.

 

They'd passed out from the pain, but were awake again now, each silent, until John. 

 

Bobby doesn't want to think about John's words, so he doesn't reply. The silence is so much easier. 

 

"So far, it seems like the angels haven't done anything."

 

Again, Bobby doesn't comment.

 

John sniffles, and Bobby thinks he's crying.

 

Finally, quietly, he asks, "John?"

 

"I love him, Bobby. I did everything. I tried so hard...kept his muteness a secret, hid him away from the rest of the world, sheltered him. I thought...I thought I'd done all I could. I should have protected him better."

 

"No," Bobby says softly, shaking his head. He's close to blacking out--the pain is awful and Bobby is  _tired._ To be unconscious would be a gift. "Protecting Sam is Dean's job."

 

John clenches his jaw, and doesn't reply. 

 

- 

It's a blur of hot bodies and heavy breathing, but they manage to abandon Bobby's kitchen for the little bedroom that has always been  _theirs,_ the shelves full of books Sam has read, the sheets on the bed the same ones that their bodies have curled up under for as long as Dean can remember. 

He places Sam on the bed, gentle, careful, peeling Sam's shirt off, and then his own, and kissing his way down Sam's chest, lips bumping over every rib.

 

Sam is a wreck, unable to hold still, wiggling and worming under Dean's mouth, fingers grasping onto the sheets at first, and then Dean's hair, and then anywhere he can possibly reach, trying to get everything at once. 

 

Dean watches him, mesmerized that  _he's_ doing this to Sam. That he  _gets_ to do this and no one gets to point fingers and call it wrong or disgusting or bad because there is no way it possibly  _can_ be. Not when it feels this right. Not when Sam is this beautiful.

 

"Are you sure?" Dean asks, voice gentle, as his lips brush over Sam's collar bone, fingers hesitating on the waistband of Sam's track pants. "Sammy?"

 

Sam lets out a shuddering breath, and there is a long pause, where Dean removes his hands and cups Sam's face, worried when he doesn't get confirmation. Sam's eyes are closed, and he's frowning.

 

" _Sam,"_ Dean tries again, swallowing dryly. "Sam, I need an answer here, kitten."

 

Sam opens his eyes, and he looks troubled. Dean kisses the tip of his nose sweetly. "Hey, there." He murmurs. "If you want to stop, Sammy, that's okay. You know that, don't you? I'm not gonna be mad. S'okay." 

 

Sam closes his eyes again and breathes deeply like he's concentrating, and when he opens them, they are the brightest hazel Dean has ever seen.

 

He has to kiss Sam because he's so gorgeous, because he's  _his,_ but when he ducks down to do just that, Sam stops him with two hands pressed against Dean's chest.

 

Confused, even scared that maybe he's pushed too hard, too fast, that Sam isn't ready or doesn't want this, Dean opens his eyes, watching Sam, as he opens his mouth, eyes still sparkling in their own curious way. 

 

"Yes, I want this." 

 

Sam's  _voice._  


And Sam isn't alarmed, or angry, or scared that he spoke. He seems...pleased. Glad. Proud of himself. As if he hoped to accomplish just that, and was delighted he had. 

 

Dean's  _elated,_ so happy he can't think straight. He laughs, exhilerated and amazed.

 

"Sam--"

 

"I love you." 

 

Sam does it again, just  _speaks_ like it's nothing, like Dean hasn't been waiting to hear that voice for 15 years. And it sounds...delicious. It makes Dean shiver and he kisses Sam hard and dirty, full of tongue and hard breathes and greedy hands.

 

Dean pulls back first.

 

"Again," He demands.

 

"I love you." Sam repeats, and when Dean tickles him, he laughs out loud, bright and free, and Dean tucks his face into Sam's neck and realizes that his kid is the kind of pure they preach about in church. That Sam's laugh is the kind of heaven everyone's been looking for, and Dean  _has_ it. Has Sam. 

 

"But--how?" Dean asks, thumbing curiously over Sam's nipples, desperate to learn his body, to drink this in as much as he can, half afraid it's some sort of beautiful dream. 

 

Sam's lips fall open and his eyes roll back. So--yes. Sam likes that. Duly noted. 

 

"Angel...blood?" Sam gasps, squirming as Dean bites a mark along the tendon in Sam's neck. "S'not easy."

 

"Say my name." Dean's voice is dark and rough with need, his hands wandering down to hesitate at the button of Sam's pants, waiting to hear what he's asked for.

 

Sam pants, watching his fingers work with wide, hungry eyes--but he doesn't say anything.

 

"Say it." Dean says again, and starts to move his hands away, slowly--testing and teasing.

 

  
_"Dean,"_ Sam groans, and grabs Dean's hands, pushing them down to his hard dick so he has something to rut against. 

 

Dean grins smugly against Sam's skin. "Sound so pretty for me," Dean praises, undoing the button and the fly with quick, practiced fingers as Sam's lashes flutter under the attention, lips wet and swollen from Dean's desperate kisses.

 

Dean pushes Sam's pants off, his own following shortly after, because jean is a  _bitch_ and he does  _not_ want to be wearing clothes anymore. Ever.

 

At all.

 

"Gonna take care of you." Dean promises, sliding down Sam's body gracefully to settle between Sam's open legs, mouthing wetly at Sam's cock, feeling how hard it was through the thin fabric of Sam's boxers. 

 

Sam arches up off the bed, hard, and his fingers weave into Dean's hair and clutch hard, not guiding him, just holding on for dear life, as if Dean was his anchor in all of this. 

 

"Tell me what you want," Dean asks, as he reaches into the bottom drawer of the dresser for condoms and lube. He'd never actually thought he'd do it in this place--after all, this bed was his and Sam's alone. But...now he's glad he purchased both. He couldn't imagine having to stop now.

 

"You!" Sam gasps out, as Dean bites his inner thigh, hard enough that it will leave a mark. 

 

"You have me." Dean objects, thumbing at the waist band of Sam's underwear, teasing him with a daring look in his eyes as he watches his little brother. "Gonna have to be more specific, baby boy."

 

"I w-want you to f-fuck me." Sam stammers. And aparently, it doesn't matter that they're both about to be naked and Dean is literally mouthing at Sam's dick--Sam still has the ability to  _blush_ at even the slightest hint of dirty talk. 

 

Well, Dean is quite the opposite of  _that,_ he knows.

 

"Yeah?" Dean grins, ripping Sam's boxers and tearing away his own to give himself some relief. "Want me to fuck that tight little ass, kitten? Make you feel good?"

 

Sam's mouth opens in a silent moan and Dean trails a hungry hand up and down his chest, feeling the bump of each rib, and Sam's hummingbird heartbeat through the fragile skin. To feel how much Sam wants this, to know that it's Dean he's begging for is it's own type of drug. This sort of ephoria should be illegal.  

 

Sam's own hand reaches to grab Dean's as Dean licks along the underside of Sam's cock, which is an angry red, curving up towards Sam's stomach. As Dean licks again, Sam takes Dean's index and middle finger into his mouth and  _sucks._  


 

Dean lets out a choked moan around Sam's cock, having to pull back just to watch Sam for a moment, eyes have closed, lazily sucking at Dean's fingers, tongue swirling, and  _yeah,_ Dean can think of better things to put in that mouth. 

 

"So hot," Dean praises, surging up to reclaim his hand and replace it with his tongue, fucking his tongue into Sam's mouth as both a warning and a promise for what he's about to do.

 

He pulls back just long enough to flip Sam over onto his stomach, which Sam seems more than okay with. 

 

Dean bites hard at the top of Sam's spine, around the jutting bone, and Sam's back arches nearly into a perfect C, but no sound comes out. 

 

"Good?" Dean asks, because he genuinely wants to know. This is Sam's first time and Dean wants to make it  _good_ for him, wants Sam to remember this. 

 

He also knows it could be their first last time, with what he's about to do, but it's easy to push that thought aside as soon as Sam tucks his knees up under him in a cat stretch position, easily baring his ass for his brother.

 

Dean takes his time rimming, split slick and sticky against the tight pucker of Sam's hole. The first lick is careful, tentative. Dean is testing Sam's reaction. 

 

When he gets a high, needy moan that goes straight to Dean's own dick, he figures that he's doing something right.

 

His tongue laps hungrily then, doing dirty, delicious things to Sam, wishing he could see Sam's face as he comes undone for him. 

 

When Sam tries to squirm back onto Dean's tongue, to get more, Dean stills him with a hand splayed over his back. "Gotta relax, kitten." Dean says calmly. "Gonna give you what you want, I promise. But m'gonna take my time." His voice is thick with desire and raspy with sex. "If it hurts--I need you to tell me. Can you do that?"

 

Sam nods once, and wiggles his hips again. Dean takes it as:  _yes, dumbass. I will tell you. Now get on with it._  


 

Dean chuckles, and grabs the lube, slicking up his fingers, as he teases around Sam's hole, earning a moan of pure, untainted  _want._  


 

And  _yeah._ Dean should definitely make that his ringtone. Except--it would probably result in a lot of weird stares and awkward boners. So...maybe not. But Dean wants to hear that sound every second of every day--it's beautiful.

 

He slides a finger into Sam, but no sound comes except for a choked gasp. Dean remembers that Sam had said it takes concentration to speak. He supposes that concentration is gone. 

 

To the surprise of absolutely no one: Dean is more than okay with that.

 

"Taking it so good." Dean praises, sliding in a second finger as soon as it seems Sam has relaxed around him. "So beautiful for me, Sammy. Fuck, just look at you." Anyone who claimed to know true beauty had never seen Sam Winchester during sex. 

 

Dean pumps two fingers in and out of Sam, feeling the wet heat and just  _knowing_ how good that is going to feel around his dick, which gives a nearly painful throb from being neglected throughout this entire thing. Dean is okay with that, too. This is about Sam, and making it good for him. Besides, he's going to get what he wants soon enough.

 

"Think you can take another for me?" Dean asks, curling his fingers to hit that one sweet spot in Sam, and in response, Sam shudders hard, nodding frantically against the pillow and canting his hips up to meet Dean's fingers every thrust. 

 

As promised, Dean pushes one more finger into Sam, and Sam shivers a little. Dean starts to pull his fingers away, when Sam pushes back, chasing after them and rolling his hips.

 

"Sammy. If it hurts, we can stop--"

 

Sam shakes his head, fast.  _No stopping, then._  


 

Dean could do this all day, could watch Sam come close to the edge, rolling back against his fingers and in turn, his hard dick against the mattress. But after a while, Sam get's impatient, and he kicks Dean away and rolls back over onto his back, glaring at Dean.

 

His cheeks are red, forehead covered in sweat, lips bruised from both  himself and Dean biting at them.  _Fuck me._ Sam mouths.  _Now._  


 

And, well, Dean never could say no to Sam.

 

Dean is quick to grab a condom and roll it on, keeping eye contact.

 

Squeezing a generous amount of lube onto his hand and working it onto his achingly hard cock, Dean watches Sam watch him. Sam looks...almost  _hungry._ It really shouldn't be as hot as it is, but fuck if Dean's not almost gone just on that look.

 

He leans down to kiss Sam, breaking his focus. "It might hurt." Dean warns, between kisses. These kisses are softer, little promises that Dean is going to make this good for them both, he's going to try. The last thing he'd ever want to do is hurt Sam. "And if it does, I need to to tell me. The sign is, um...like this." Dean grins, holding up a middle finger.

 

  
_Jerk. Just do it already._ Sam mouths--but his eyes are alight and Dean--Dean is happy. 

 

"No but seriously, if I'm hurting you--"

 

Sam grabs Dean's dick and slides down onto it, wrapping his legs around Dean's hips and his arms around Dean's neck as he takes Dean's cock, inch by inch, his hot, shuddering breath right in Dean's ear.

 

" _Fucking hell,"_ Dean says passionately, feeling the wet warmth around him. "So fucking tight." So much better than any girl Dean has ever fucked, Sam is pliant and panting and just  _taking_ it, and yeah. Fucking  _yeah._  


 

Sam nibbles on Dean's earlobe, as if it to keep himself grounded. But then he whispers, "Move." In Dean's ear and yep. Dean is so there for that.

 

He fucks into him slowly at first, letting Sam adjust to being so full, too focused on watching Sam's face change as he pulls back only to push back in, aiming for that one spot that he knows will send shocks of pleasure through Sam.

 

When he finds it, he knows, because Sam rakes hungry fingernails down Dean's back, leaving marks and maybe even possibly drawing blood as Dean's hips snap harder and harder, before he slams into his little brother, abandoning all gentleness when he feels that Sam wants  _more_.

 

"Gonna feel me for days," Dean promises filthily. "Can't have you forgetting who you really belong to, can we?"

 

Sam answers with his mouth slack in a silent moan, and Dean sucks on his tongue because he can. 

 

He's close now, he can feel it, his balls tightening, muscles growing tense, and he wants Sam to come with him, wants them to ride this high together.

 

"Sammy--"

 

Dean's about to say  _touch yourself, come for me,_ just as he reaches his own climax, but then, seconds later, as Dean is riding out the pleasure of his orgasm, and about to reach for Sam to help him do the same, Sam comes with a broken moan, beautiful cock untouched.

 

"Oh fuck," Dean grunts, thrusting helplessly as the last of it passes. "That was so hot."

 

Sam rolls his eyes, but he's got the dopiest smile on his face. Dean pulls out and yanks off the condom, throwing it somewhere to the side. He'd worry about it later. 

 

Sam's chest is a mess of come and Dean quickly pulls off a pillowcase to wipe it up, before tossing that aside as well. Finally, he can collapse beside his kid and pull Sam safely into his arms.

 

"You're perfect." Dean tells him, and doesn't expect a reply.

 

He gets one, though, never mind that it's not verbal. Sam curls up close and kisses the freckles on Dean's chest, reaching for Dean's hand.

 

Carefully, on the delicate flesh of Dean's inner wrist, Sam traces a deliberate little heart. 

 

And for a stupid, blind second, Dean thinks everything is going to be okay. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another one down, ???? left to go. I'm so glad I have my life figured out. >.>
> 
> Anyhoo! I hoped you like it. Let's hope it doesn't take me so freakin' long again. Grr. 
> 
> Love ya. As always, come yell at me on tumblr at wincestplease.
> 
> Your comments give me life. xoxo


	25. You Call Me Your Boy (But I'm Trying To Be the Man)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam is going to hate him for what he's about to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally.   
> Ah.   
> Shorter Chappie. Sowwy.

**“I love you. I love you. I send this message through my fingers and into his, up his arm and into his heart. Hear me. I love you. And I'm sorry to leave you.”  
―Jenny Downham, _Before I Die_  **

-

 

Dean Winchester knows 5 things.

1\. He is a hunter. 

It in his veins, runs thick in his blood, crawls under his skin, weaves around each bone. There is no avoiding it. Dean isn't supposed to have a wife, three kids, a dog and a minivan. He doesn't get a cubical and a neighbor that cuts his lawn when Dean is out of town. Instead, he gets this: he gets Sam asleep on his chest, pliant and sated after Dean had had him in the most intimate way, and it's all he's ever wanted but it's fleeting. All of it is  _fleeting_ and Dean knows this.

2\. Sam is his.

To protect, to love, to keep. By some miracle, he was lucky enough to be put in Sam's life--not the other way around--and he's known that, right from that very first day when the tiniest version of Sam was placed into his arms and he was told: "This is your little brother."  _Yours._ After that, keeping Sam all to himself was as easy as breathing. In. Out. Hold Sam. Love him. Protect him.

3\. Dean is going to die, and Sam is going to live.

This is the way it's supposed to be. Not only did Dean think this before he found out Sam had angel blood, but the prophetic books in Bobby's dusty library basically promise his death. Dean was born to die for his kid. He's ready. He'll fight for Sam until his last breath, will do anything, bear anything. The sweetest kiss from the lips of Death won't take him until he knows Sam is okay. 

4\. He loves Sam, and Sam loves him.

Although it's obvious, it feels good to think,  _Sam loves me._ Because when Dean is looking at him, hazel eyes and dimples and skinny limbs always reaching for him, it seems surreal that someone like Sam could ever love someone like him. But he does, and Dean knows it. Slender fingers drawing a heart on the inside of Dean's wrist, before sliding down and gripping his fingers tight, and Dean  _knows,_ the same way you know your own name. You don't remember ever learning it, but you know with absolute certainty that it's yours. That Sam's love is his. 

5\. Sam is going to hate him for what he's about to do.

And it's going to hurt bad enough to make the air feel like cement in his lungs but there is no way around it and Dean can't blame him.

If the ultimate sacrifice is nothing is going to stop him from keeping his kid safe.

Not Heaven. 

Not Hell.

Not even Sam himself.

-

Dean sort of hates himself when he wakes up.

Sam is curled against him, their legs tangled together. Sam's fingers are wrapped loosely around Dean's wrist, as if he'd fallen asleep tracing hearts on the pale skin there. Dean can feel Sam's warm puffs of breath against his neck, and he wishes he could stay like this forever.

So, yeah. Dean hates himself a little when he gets out of bed carefully, so as not to jostle Sam, and Sam does nothing except curl closer when he scoops him up. Still asleep, Sam seeks Dean's closeness. 

Dean might never get this again. 

"I'm so sorry." Dean whispers, carrying Sam down the stairs. He's growing quickly--soon, Dean knows, Sam will outgrow even him. But for now, he's still small enough to fit just right under Dean's chin when he hugs him, is still light as a bird as Dean brings him to the one place he knows Sam will be safe.

It's stocked to last an entire year. Food, water, entertainment. A bed. A small bathroom. Everything Sam will need to survive. 

In preparation for when it's safe, (and it will be safe, Dean's not dying until he knows that Sam is going to be okay) Dean has contacted several people to let Sam out of the panic room. He's given  _very_ clear instructions that Sam is  _only_ to be let out when it's  _safe._ He called several hunters for the obvious reasons: if all really does go to hell, there is no way everyone is going to survive, but someone has to. Someone will. 

He opens the room with one hand, carefully juggling Sam against his chest with the other, as Sam murmurs sleepily against the heavy protest of metal as the door opens, tucking himself tighter to Dean. 

Gently, Dean lays Sam down on the single bed, pulling the covers up to his chin and watching him. 

Sam is blissfully unaware, face peaceful, relaxed--for all of 3 seconds. 

It's almost as if Sam realizes that Dean is no longer close, because his face screws up and he curls in tighter on himself, eyes squinted shut tight against anyone who isn't his big brother.

Before Sam can have a bad dream or wake himself up, Dean reaches out to hold Sam's hand, sinking to the floor of the panic room, idly playing with Sam's fingers, not calloused from the trigger of a gun or the handle of a knife, not like Dean's. 

Sam is still pure, an innocent. Eyes still wide with hope. Heart not yet splashed with the blood of others. 

And his boy his beautiful, and he's going to be okay. He's strong and smart and the panic room is angel and demon proof. Sam is going to be okay in here. It's not the Hilton, but it's got heating and AC, and it's going to be okay. His kid is going to be okay.

"You can't hate me," Dean says to Sam, even though he knows both that Sam will, and that he is asleep, blissfully unaware of what is happening or what Dean is saying to him. "You just can't." 

Upon glancing to the side, Dean sees a napkin and a pen. He looks back to Sam, asleep, mouth slightly parted, still decorated in bruises from Dean's mouth, proof the night before had really happened. 

He picks up the pen, and lightly, so lightly, careful not to wake Sam, he draws a little heart in pen along Sam's wrist, before taking the napkin, and writing: 

**Sammy,**

**I'm going to be okay. Megan is with me. We're going to get dad and Bobby. If I get back**

**When I get back, you can hate me all you want. 'Till then, stay safe. Stay here. Don't miss me too much.**

**-D**

And that's everything. He puts it on the small table and leaves it, knowing Sam will find it eventually. He's just about to resume holding Sam's hand when there is a knock at the door.

Megan.

Dean straightens, and leans down to kiss Sam's forehead, letting his lips linger there for a moment as he soaks it in--his skin against Sam's.

He won't get this again. 

"I love you." 

The knocking persists, and Dean walks out of the panic room backwards, looking at Sam for as long as he can, before finally turning his back and locking the door, closing the shutter.

Dean runs up the stairs, eager to get away from what he's just done, yet he feels the distance put between him and his kid like never before, as though there were a physical string attaching them both, tugging on him to get back down there, to take Sam into his arms and be selfish, to keep him here and let the world eat itself alive around them. 

Dean opens the door to find Megan standing there with four dead bodies at her feet and one demon behind her with a gun to her head, black eyes glinting so that Dean can see his own reflection in them.

He looks like a man who's lost everything. 

Megan looks tired. "He got me while I was taking care of these fuckers." She gestures with her hand to the bodies. Dean sees that the body Sam had taken care of is no longer there--whether some other demon possessed it or took it away, he didn't know.

Dean rolls his eyes. "Listen, asshole, I'm not in the mood." He tells the demon.

"Give me the boy."

"Fat chance, Satan Jr." 

"I'll kill her."

"No you won't."

The demon presses the gun into Megan's head harder, and she clenches her jaw.  "Y'know, Dean, I think he just might."

Dean moves fast. He feints right and then grabs Megan's left arm, hauling her inside and ducking behind the couch with her as the gunshots sound. 

Megan grumbles, her voice lost under the assaulting noises. "Great plan, Dean." 

The sarcasm is thick. 

-

Sam wakes up to the sound of a gun. 

It's not as unsettling as it should be.

-

It doesn't take much--a few sentences yelled out in Latin and the thing is smoking out. The meat suit had obviously been dead a while--there are no signs of life after the demon is gone.

"Thanks." Megan says, once Dean excorsized the demon. All he can think about is Sam down there, awake now, probably, after  _that_ loud affair. 

Before Dean can answer her, he hears banging on the panic room door. 

His kid. Scared. Alone. Confused. Dean has to go. Dean has to explain. Sam will never understand but Dean--Dean can't leave him.

Megan's eyes widen. "Is that--"

"I'm going to keep Sam safe." Dean says stubbornly. "But I have to go talk with him. I'll be back in a minute--get your things ready. We'll leave right away, and we're taking the Impala." 

Megan looks scared. Dean supposed the reality is hitting her--what they're about to do, what it could mean. And Dean knows he's selfish for asking her do this for him--Christ, he's almost asking her to die. But he knows at the same time that he'd pay any price for Sam, and if he had to chose Megan or Sam...he wouldn't hesitate.

Before she can reply, Dean is down the stairs. Sam's banging stops when he hears the familiar footfalls of his big brother, and Dean can hear his relieved breath, thinking that everything is okay. 

When Dean slides the shutter across the allows for a small, barred off window so he can see Sam, Sam is pressed up against it.

  
_Thank god,_ his eyes seem to say.  _I was so worried._ Sam, apparently, hasn't found the napkin letter Dean left. 

Dean doesn't unlock the door. He watches those clear hazel eyes cloud with confusion, and then panic. Dean sees Sam start to wonder, to doubt. Maybe he thinks Dean is possessed, a demon who'd locked him in there to die. Maybe he thinks Dean is joking around, or training him to escape from do or die situations.

But he'd never suspect the truth. That Dean would  _actually_ do this to him. 

Sam bangs on the door again, his eyes growing wider..  _Let me out, De._  


"I'm sorry." Dean says, and he is. He doesn't want to do this. Leaving Sam behind is going to be the hardest thing he's ever done. But he has to do it--watching Sam die would be so much harder. 

There is no way he's marching his baby brother into the heart of the fire, into the den of the dragons. If whoever has his father and Bobby think he's stupid enough to bring Sam with him, they're going to get a delicious surprise. "I can't."

  
_Yes you can,_ Sam mouths quickly, small fingers gripping the bars of the window. Fingers that were fisted in bed sheets not 12 hours ago. The mouth that twists in worry is the same mouth that had moaned Dean's name. Now, Sam doesn't speak. Dean wonders why, thinks maybe he can't find the concentration, maybe the panic is too real.  _Dean. What are you doing?_  


"Megan and I are going to get dad, and Bobby." Dean says, speaking very slowly, making the last moments he has with Sam last. 

Sam's hands go limp on the bars as the realization hits him and he curls in on himself, tightly, as if he's blocking last night out.

  
_You're leaving me._ Sam mouths, and looks up at Dean, eyes wild in their epiphany.

Something in Dean wants to deny that statement viciously, wants to scream,  _no, Sam, not you. I'd never leave you._ After all, Dean's entire life was composed of those little promises to Sam.  _No Sam, I'm not going anywhere. It's us against the world. Nothing is going to keep me from you understand? I'm always going to be there when you need me. I'm not leaving. I would never do that to you. I would never leave you behind._  


But that is exactly what he's doing. He's leaving.

And he can see the panic like a storm rolling into Sam's eyes, so Dean unlocks the door and steps inside, and he takes Sam into his arms.

Sam fights it. For the first time in his life, Sam scrambles away from Dean, trying to shove him off, shut him out.

Dean lets him free.

"Sammy," Dean says, and he's not sure how five letters can represent something bigger than an ocean, but Sam looks up at him and Dean can see a tsunami alive there on his face, in the thunder of his fists and the hurricane of his eyes. In the lightening of his trembling lip. 

Sam doesn't mouth anything, or write, or trace, or sign. He stares, and Dean is about to break under the weight of all that neither of them are saying. 

He can read Sam like his favorite book.  _You said you'd never leave me. You promised. You promised that it was me and you against the world and now you're going to run off and get yourself killed and_  


"Gonna be alone," Sam whispers, and his voice, beautiful as it is, sounds wrecked, and he backs away from Dean until he hits a wall, and then he stays there. 

"No." Dean says. "No, Sammy, it's not forever, okay? Hey. Look at me."

Sam won't. 

"I'm just going to go get Bobby, and Dad, and then we're coming right back here and we're going to figure this thing out together. I'm going to come back, and I'm going to keep on protecting you, just like I'm supposed to, yeah? Look. Your phone is over there. I'll keep mine on me, on loud, so if you text me I'll know right away. Hey. Sam. Sammy. I'm coming back."

Sam shakes his head, staring at the floor.  _You'll die._  


"You don't think I can take on a couple of demons? A few angels?" He says, trying for lighthearted. "Where's the faith, Sam?"

Sam doesn't answer. Instead, he closes his eyes, as if bracing himself against Dean, shutting him out.

One, bright burst of blue light comes from Sam, and Dean half expects to die or go blind just from seeing such brilliance, when the room fades back to normal, and Sam is shaking his head.

"The room is angel proof." Dean says slowly, walking towards Sam while he's still distracted. "Your...abilities...they won't work in here."

Sam looks up at him, finally. He looks defeated.  _Take me with you._  


"I'd rather die." And he would. And maybe he will.

It doesn't scare him as much as it should.

Sam looks like he'd been slapped in the face.  _You've always viewed me as weaker. I can help. I can be bait._  


"I've always seen you as something to  _protect_ , Sam, because you  _are._ You don't see it, I know you don't. But I do, and I'm going to do anything in my power to keep you as far away from danger as possible." Dean says, and he reaches out to cup Sam's face, expecting Sam to step away, but instead, Sam throws himself at Dean, wrapping his skinny legs around Dean's waist and his arms around Dean's neck, and kisses him.

There's tongue, a lot of it, mostly from Sam, who is relentless. He licks into Dean's mouth, sucks on his tongue, bites Dean's bottom lip.

And yeah, Dean definitely isn't pushing him away, but he knows that at any moment Megan could walk downstairs and he doesn't feel like losing her because of who he loves. Wants to protect Sam from ever seeing someone look at them and call them wrong. 

"Sam," Dean manages between Sam's kisses. "Hey. Whoa."

Sam pulls away, finally, pressing his face into Dean's neck. There are little frustrated puffs of air coming from him, tickling Dean's neck. Sam is trying to speak, but he can't find the words.

"I'm gonna go." 

Sam tenses and starts to pull back, never mind that his legs are still wrapped around Dean's hips.

"I'm gonna go, kitten. And I'm going to come back to you. And while I'm gone you can write me a nice, huge letter about how pissed you are. And I'll read it when I get back, and you can ignore me for as long as you want. I promise." 

Sam swallows, and looks up at him, dropping his feet to the floor, but staying close.  _If you leave me here, if you go without me--_  


Dean presses his lips to Sam's forehead, lets them linger. Closes his eyes and breathes in. His kid. His beautiful boy. His angel.

Sam steps out of Dean's arms.  _If you leave me here I will never, ever forgive you for it._  


Dean clenches his jaw. "I love you, kid." 

And he leaves. 

-

Megan pretends not to notice Dean's swollen lips. 

It's easier that way.

-

Before they hit the road, Dean stops on his way to the drivers side, spotting something that catches his eye.

A notebook, carelessly strewn at the side of the house. Frowning, he approaches it, ignoring Megan's curious gaze. Upon scooping it up, Dean realizes it's Sam's journal. He doesn't open it--he's made that mistake once, won't do it again. But he holds it to his chest for a moment, pages damp and frayed from the heavy air and previous rain. He takes it with him.

He keeps it in his jacket pocket, right over his heart.

And he drives away. 

It is as simple as that, in many ways, and in many ways, it's not.

It's not, because they've tried to be as prepared as possible, but essentially, they're going in blind against an enemy that has both something they want and eyes everywhere. 

It's not, because Megan occupies the Impala's sacred passenger seat--Sam's seat.

"I'm keeping  him safe." Dean says, as he pulls onto the highway, to no one in particular. 

Megan presses her lips together, and doesn't reply. 

-

They're going on blind faith alone, following the same route Dean imagined Bobby would, as if he were looking for his father. Goes into a bar and asks questions, and doesn't think of a spindly boy with dimples and dreams to big for the shitty life he was given probably trying to scream himself hoarse in the panic room of Bobby Singer's modest home.

He gets in the impala, and he drives.

He's saving Sam. He  _is._ He's got to. 

-

Megan insists on switching off when Dean's eyes start to water. Neither of them mention anything, but as Megan pulls away from the side of the road, Dean curls up in the passenger seat and presses his nose to the leather. He can still smell it, very faintly, the ghost of his kid. 

"It'll be okay." Megan says. Her voice is like stale bread.

Above them, the sky is grey.

-

**[3:23] So far so good. No signs of Heaven or Hell. -D**

**[3:39] If anyone tries to get it, don't speak to them okay? Not safe. -D**

**[3:57] And make sure you eat something. -D**

**[4:03] I'm sorry, kid. -D**

**[4:04] I had to. -D**

**-**

Dean closes his eyes and presses his phone to his head, hard. 

-

Sam let his phone go off with Dean's messages. He reads them, or tries to, anyway, but his vision is swimming with betrayal. 

He closes his eyes and the tears don't stop, once they start. He cries numbly to the empty room, back pressed against the unforgiving metal door. 

This is it. 

_Hey. Look at me. Do it look like I'd ever leave you?_

No. Not you. Never you.

_I can be your constant. If you can count on anything, count on me._

I always have. 

_There we go. All better. See? Nothing a spiderman bandaid can't fix, right Sammy?_

You fixed me, De. 

_I'm sorry. Dad...he doesn't understand. But I do. I always will._

You don't even have to try. 

_It's going to be okay._

It is, now.

_I've got you, kitten. It's alright. I'm here._

It's alright when you're here. 

_I love you, Sam._

I love you more. 

_I'm leaving you._

You can't.

_I'm coming back._

 

 

No. You aren't.

-

 

 

His brother is going to die. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another one down!   
> Comments are greatly appreciated!! You amazing people are the reason this fic made it over 20K. I can't thank you enough, I am so so grateful for all the readers. You are perfection.   
> As always, feel free to come yell at/with me on tumblr @wincestplease   
> Until next chapter, my precious babs  
> xoxox -Keagan


	26. Only Heaven I'll Be Sent To

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And Dean should have goddamn known.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM TRASH.

 

 

 

The fact that Dean knows he's going to die at a gas station is depressing enough in it's own way, never mind the part where he has hardly done enough to make Sam safe yet and that his kid is expecting him to come home.

He's failed at the only job he's ever had. 

Megan will never see her husband again. 

Really, it's Dean's own fault. He knew, bringing her into this, that it might cost her everything. That she could pay the ultimate price. The thing was, was that Dean knew it was for his kid, and there was no price too high, not really. Not Megan's life. Not 6 billion lives. Sam is worth everything. 

It happens in colors.

The first color is green. It's the color of the logo on the gas station and it catches Dean's eye. He's at just under a quarter of a tank and he and Megan estimate it will still be awhile until they track down Bobby, including stops at local bars to ask if they'd seen him or John, and perhaps a few hours at a motel to catch some rest before they sleep forever. He's going into this at his best. Sam deserves nothing less.

Dean pulls up and fills up the tank. He's watchful, as always.

You can never be too careful. 

The next color is orange. It's an ugly t shirt that the man across from him is wearing, but the florescence of it catches Dean's eye. He doesn't think anything of it--the man is older, perhaps in his late 20's, early 30's. There are children in the back of his minivan whining and kicking their feet. A wife in the passenger seat who looks exhausted. Typical road tripping family of five. The tired fondness in the mothers face almost makes Dean smile. 

Then there is black. Black smoke. The mans mouth hangs open almost comically as a demon crams it's way into the meat suit, and then it is war.

 

And Dean should have goddamn known.

"Megan!" Dean says, voice sharp as his muscles lock for battle. This is it. Another fight, another way to keep Sam safe. He takes care of this problem and there is one less demon around to ever be a threat to his kid.

Megan is out of the car and at his side just in time for the demon to smile in the way only demons can. Sinister and amused. 

"Samuel Winchester," It says, with the same voice that had probably been singing along to the radio just moments ago. "We want him."

"Get in line," Megan grits, but it's forced. 

Dean glances at her, and....she looks scared. The scar across her face is jagged and pink, bringing out the slight redness of her eyes that proved her exhaustion, despite the fact they'd rested. Her red hair was braided tightly back from her face and curled around itself into a small bun at the nap of her neck. Her eyes were bright with the thrill of danger.

But her hands. Her hands shook. Her knuckles were white.

Dean dragged her into this. He made her do this. 

_I'm sorry,_ he thinks, but it isn't enough. Of course it isn't. Megan has a husband, someone who loves her the way Dean loves Sam, and Jake is going to lose her. 

Dean curls his hands into fists and hears his fathers voice in his head. 

_We can't save everyone. But can damn well try._

Dean promises to try, thinks hard about Megan's husband. He'd do his best to keep her safe. 

But Sam still came first.

"Give us the boy. We know he's somewhere around here." The demon hisses. 

Dean glances at the minivan. The wife and children are all staring out the window. Their eyes are black.

_Fuck. Even the kids._

Dean steps forward. "What is it with all you fuckers, anyways? Why do you want him so badly?" Dean already knows the answer. 

"Samuel is powerful. He is strong enough to be trained to kill every demon in hell, every angel in Heaven. But  _we're_ going to get him first," It says. 

Dean drinks this in. It's nothing new, but he didn't like the sound of that, not at all.  

"You haven't been watching very closely if you think either of us are just going to let you at him." Megan says. Dean is proud of the way her upper lip curls into a snarl. She looks fierce. Ready. 

"There is an army of us, just waiting to gather. We are ready to be under Sam's command." The voice is new--the woman, the mother, is now at the mans side. Her eyes are a liquid black, unblinking. Her smile is disturbingly soft, unlike the demon beside her, who looks nothing short of hungry.

"Samuel Winchester would be our king. Our leader. He would help us to make the world a better place. He's already got angel blood--if we gave him even an ounce of demon blood, he'd have  _both,_ and he'd be unstoppable. The strongest force in the world--and he'd lead us to do great things, Dean. You understand that, don't you? How much better it could be?"

"Yeah," Dean grits. "I'm sure a demon-infested earth is what everyone truly needs." 

"You love Sam, don't you?" She asks, batting her lashes. 

Dean doesn't justify that with an answer. Of course he does, of  _course_ he does, he'd do anything, bear anything--

"Then I'm sure the thought of dear Sammy getting hurt makes you  _sick,_ doesn't it?" 

_Yeah, yes, gonna throw up, can't hurt Sammy, anyone else, everyone else but him, not my boy, not my kid--_

"The angels  _would_  hurt him though, Dean. Badly. Drill into his head with awful sharp things and make him howl in pain, make him bleed. He'd be so scared." The girl bites her bottom lip, looking nervous. She was a good actress, Dean would give her that. "We would never hurt Sam. We'd teach him to control his power."

_No. No, not my beautiful boy. Can't touch him._

_Not Sam._

_They can't hurt Sam._

  
_They_ won't hurt Sam.

Dean will kill them. He'll kill them all, until there was no Heaven, no Hell, just Sammy and his dimpled smile and his gangly limbs. The only Heaven Dean needed were those hazel eyes and the only Hell Dean ever wanted to see was the torturous inferno of Sam's skin against his. 

"We wouldn't hurt anybody." The woman continues innocently, her black eyes wide. "We just want somewhere to go where we wouldn't have to live in pain. Sam could provide that for us. Hell is...you have no idea what it's like down there--"

"Let me guess," Dean says, stepping forward. He's got an exorcism on the tip of his tongue. "It's Hell?"

The woman clenches her jaw. It's jaw. "What we want is better than what the Angels want. They want to kill all the humans, to cleanse the earth of all humans." She snarls, voice no longer honey-sweet. "At least we'd let you stay."

"I don't know about you, sweetheart, but personally I'd rather die than be worn around like a designer prom dress." Dean's tone drips with venom. 

The man rushes at Megan. 

Dean sees it coming, sees the shift in weight, the switch of frustration to determination on his face, and he reacts, grabbing Megan's wrist and tugging her behind him, already starting to say the Latin words that would free the poor humans from the awful black pest within them.

Dean hoped the kids would be okay.

 The demon comes plowing into Dean, and Megan starts chanting the words along with Dean, both their voices stronger than just one.

"Samuel isn't here!" The woman suddenly howls, throwing her head back, hands clenched into fists as black smoke finally starts to rise out of her, almost willingly, along with the children. Dean is relieved, but it's not over yet.

The man, though, is much harder to be rid of. He's angry, and his anger helps to stay exactly where he is, locked inside the human. 

"We've already got Sam," The demon snarls. "Soon as you left him alone, we snatched him right up. I believe  we're torturing him right now. He's probably screaming for you to save him--but you left, Dean. You left him, and you're the reason we're going to break him so we can mold him into exactly the brand of evil we want." 

Dean stops short,the Latin words dripping from his tongue like a broken faucet. 

No. 

_No._

That's not true. Can't be true. They--they don't  _have_ Sam. They can't possibly have him. 

Megan doesn't falter--keeps going, her words like knifes cutting the silence that had fallen between the hell sent demon and the hell bent hunter. 

"I'm going to kill you." Dean said carefully. His tone was sweet, gentle, a sugar coating over a layer of cold, hard steel. 

"You can't kill a demon." The man replies, winking. He is happy. He is laughing. 

Dean  _is going to kill him._  


"Watch me," Dean murmurs, and then he lunges, simultaneously reaching for the knife in his pack pocket. It was nothing special, something his father had given him on his first day of grade 4. He'd been good with it--learning how to apply just the right amount of pressure to carve up a werewolf or behead a vampire that had gotten too close to Sammy that one, awful occasion his brother had been allowed to join on a hunt.

"Kill me, and you kill the father of three You wouldn't do that, now would you, Dean?" The demon gestures to the minivan full of crying children, shaken up after what has happened and the scene before them. The blonde woman is on the ground, curled around herself and trembling in denial. 

Dean wants to help her.

He doesn't. 

Children without a father, if he did this. Might not even kill the demon--might just kill the man. 

He didn't want to be a monster, someone who killed innocents. Not when someone he loved believed him to be a hero.

Dean thinks of Sam.

It's not an usual thing--Dean is  _always_ thinking of Sam. But in this moment, Dean is thinking of Sam's voice. His wide innocent eyes and how he looked after he'd burned the life out of the demon on Bobby's front porch. 

Dean stops short. He wouldn't do this--Sam wouldn't want him to do this.

But his hesitation is too much, too soon. It's obvious. It leaves him as an easy target.

"You are our biggest obstacle in getting to Samuel." The demon says calmly. And then there is a gun, and a gunshot, and Dean's chest is suddenly on fire with a burning sort of pain, and he's staring up at the sky.

The last color is red, and it's his own blood, leaking. Leaking everywhere, there's too much of it, it's too sticky.

It hurts, of course it hurts, but Dean is somewhere else, somewhere far away from all of this, and he's laughing his way down a highway with the windows rolled down and his kid is in the passenger seat, exactly where he belongs--at Dean's side.

He hears Megan's voice, far away and panicky, completing the exorcism as the demon turns to smoke and vanishes, and then she's at his side and worrying. 

She whispers sweet little nothings, and he's proud of her for not crying.

Megan is strong.

Megan is so strong and Sam is so beautiful and Bobby has warm eyes and Dean doesn't  _want_ to die. How could he ever want to die when he's got a friend with fire for hair, and an surrogate uncle who is really more of a surrogate father, and a beautiful boy with the world in his eyes. 

He can't go, not yet. He's not done yet.

"You're not going anywhere." Megan says, and Dean realizes he might be speaking aloud. "I'm taking you to a hospital, and it's going to be okay."

Dean closes his eyes, and chooses to believe her. 

-

Meredith presses her hands flat to her window and breathes warm air against it. In the fog her breath creates, she draws a symbol of hope, and her mind is brought back to two boys, a car, and dreams bigger than entire galaxies. 

"All will happen as it is meant to," She tells the air, as though it is her secret. "In the end, there will be a beginning." 

  
_Yes,_ she thinks, and watches as a doting mother and father walk with a small child on the sidewalk before her home.  _All will be fine._  


-

Samuel Winchester was born with a purpose.

The angels will tell you he is to save them all, defeat hell, join them in Heaven.

The demons will tell you he's meant to kill all the angels, free the demons and let there be Hell on earth.

But Samuel himself would tell you that first of all, his name is Sam, and secondly, the only job he's ever been responsible for is loving his brother. And he's damn good at it.

So good, in fact, that when he manages to break out of the panic room, he knows Dean is solely responsible.

It didn't take as much as it should have. His entire childhood consisted of, "Nothing can get into or out of the panic room that isn't human." And, "The panic room is safe, Sammy. Nothing can get you there.  _That's_ where you go if something happens."

But it wasn't impossible. Hard, yes. Painful, a little. 

He'd done it, though. 

It'd started with Sam curled in a ball in the corner of the room, staring at his phone. Dean's name was on the screen from messages he'd sent Sam. Sam didn't read them, he'd known they were probably apologies. He knew Dean was sorry. Didn't matter. He'd left.

And then, there was a spark. Something tangible inside of him that he could grab onto and  _stretch,_ until it was the size of entire galaxies, until it thrummed through him and made him jump to his feet, suddenly full of the need to  _burst._  


 

And then it'd happened, not quite with the ease of breathing, but with the careful measured power, similar to that of a practiced foot kicking in a door. It took something out of him, but he wasn't drained.

The room had light up in crystal blue light, and Sam had still been alone, but knew he wouldn't be for much longer.

The lock on the door undid with a click that sounded final.

  
_No. Don't. They'll hurt you,_ Dean's voice was in his head like a mantra--in him, all around him.  _They'll come for you._  


Sam opens his eyes and feels the thrum once more, glancing over his shoulder and grabbing his phone, tucking it into his back pocket. 

  
_Yes,_ he decides, inhaling. The rush of power fills him, but he tucks it away carefully, to save it for later, for when he finds Dean.  _L_ _et them._  


-

Sam is halfway out the door when there is a pang in his chest, just for a second, the worst sort of pain, and then nothing, and he straightens, glancing around wildly, clutching at his skin.

There is no wound, but the ghost of one, perhaps, a dull ache that is the mirror image of something much, much worse.

And he just  _knows,_ the way Sam thinks soulmates always do, that something is wrong.

That Dean is hurt.

That Dean could die.

That Dean might already be dead.

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS TOOK FOOOOOOREVER AND IT'S ONLY 2K. I KNOW. gUYS I am so sorry school is back and I'm trying to manage my time best i can but we all know how awful i am at THAT.   
> SO anyway  
> i'm trying my best to end this fic ASAP so i can start on my other fics but yo yo yo that is easier said than DONE. AM I RIGHT.   
> yell at me on tumblr @wincestplease 'cos like, that will motivate me n'stuff  
> you are my precious bb and i love u   
> thanks for reading (:   
> P.S I am trash but ur pretty cute if i do say so myself


	27. I Turned My Back and it Turned to Dust (What Have You Done To Us?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SAM SAYS:  
> You left
> 
> SAM SAYS:  
> You were supposed to be the one that never left

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love ya'll  
> don't hate me too much for this one  
> tw for minor character death

**"To leave, after all, was not the same as being left." -Anita Shreve _  
_**

**________________________________________________________________________**

Sam Winchester is an awful driver.

 

He never did inherit the easy confidence of his brother or father while behind the wheel. Instead, his knuckles are white and breathing labored as he tries to focus on not hitting or killing an innocent pedestrian or running the old beat up van--the only one Bobby had running in the junk yard--off the road.

 

His heart hurts.

 

Sam wishes there were a more poetic way to say it, to sing it out in stanzas or verses that could make a stranger understand the ache of a heart that is still in the process of breaking.

 

Dean could be dead.

 

Dean could be

 

Dean could

 

Dean

 

Dead.

 

Dean. His Dean. His….everything. His world.

 

Sam swerves to avoid a little boy in a blue jacket crossing the street. A boy a few years older than the one in the blue jacket gives Sam the middle finger and pulls the younger one close. In his rearview, Sam sees him checking the smaller boy over for injuries.

 

A big brother, and a little brother. Protection. Safety. Love. Happiness.

 

Sam’s gotta get to him.

 

He knows where he’s going. He’s not sure how, or why, but there is something inside of him that tells him to make a sharp left onto another road, or to take what exit and where.

 

He has to trust his gut. It’s gotten him this far. It will get him to Dean.

 

Sam is not human. He knows this. He’s accepted this.

 

Even if Dean left Sam, he’s got to still love him. Dean has to love him, he has to. He does. He has to.

 

Sam looks out the window.

 

It’s dark.

 

There are no stars.

 

-

“Where is he?”

 

Megan startles as Dean’s voice wakes her from her light sleep. The hospital room is quiet. It’s just after midnight and all the other patients are asleep. The lights are out. The night nurses are making their rounds.

 

She blinks into alertness, making sure there was no danger in the hospital room.

 

There was only Dean, panting and looking around frantically, starting to claw at the IV and blood transfusions that were actively keeping  him alive and healthy in equal amounts.

 

“Dean!” She barks, getting a hand on either of his shoulders and pushing him down. “Hey! It’s me, relax! You need to calm down!”

 

“Tell me where he is, dammit!” Dean growls, going as far as to snap his teeth at her. Dean is strong, even in his weakened state, but the drugs may just have had enough effect on him to make Megan able to hold him down from hurting himself, though her own tired muscles protest and ache.

 

“Who?” She cries, flattening a hand across his chest, carefully avoiding the bandaged wound.

 

“What did they do to my kid?”

 

And of course. Megan should have known the only person that Dean would be asking about while this worked up would be Sam. Of course it would be. Of course.

 

It would always be Sam.

 

“Sam is fine. Dean, listen to me. He’s safe, okay? He’s in the panic room at Bobby’s. You locked him up, so nothing could hurt him, remember? He’s safe, for Christ’s sake. Don’t be such a damn fool. Calm down. Just breathe.”

 

Dean doesn’t calm down, he’s sobbing wet tears, violent, wretched noises that rip themselves from some deep, dark part of Dean that Megan knew existed but had never fully experienced. His vulnerable side. The part of Dean Winchester that had been on the edge too many times for someone who was just 19.

 

New blood stained the bandages on Dean’s chest.

 

“Calm down.” Megan tries. The pain in Dean’s face, in his voice, wrecks through her. He’s destroying himself just thinking that Sam is hurt.

 

“Sammy!” Dean calls out. Sam doesn’t answer. Sam isn’t here.

 

“He’s not here.” Megan says, her voice hardly above a whisper.

 

Dean blinks. This seems to register. “He’s not here.” He echoes Megan’s words as if tasting them on his tongue as some foreign language.

 

She shakes her head. Urges him down onto the bed.

 

“No.” She says evenly. “He’s not. But he’s safe.”

 

Dean closes his eyes. “He’s okay. Safe. Not here.” It’s not a question, exactly, but Megan catches the hopeful tone. He wants affirmation.

 

If he was here, that would be the panic. If Sam saw Dean hurt, Dean knew how scared he’d be. Dean was scared of Sam ever being scared, or confused, or lost or hurt or anything at all.

 

“Yeah, Dean,” She chokes, collapsing into the unforgiving plastic chair she’d been in all night and blinking hard at the exhaustion. “Sam’s okay.”

 

-

 

Sam wasn’t okay.

 

The night was dark around him

 

He wanted his big brother.

 

He was tired.

 

He kept driving.

 

-

 

Dean’s exhausted from lack of sleep and terrible guilt and worry for his little brother, trying to put the pieces together to find his father, from praying that he and Bobby will still be alive when they get there, and from feeling horrible about dragging Megan--and by association, Jake and yeah, even Kyle--down with him.

 

The hospital food made his stomach turn in disgust, but the painkillers--it was the good stuff--helped him to feel numb. Much to the disapproval of the nurses, he fought sleep tooth and nail just to stay awake a little longer, wondering if Sammy would text him, knowing eventually he’d have to succumb if only to keep the nurses off his case.

 

Megan had left to get herself a much needed coffee from the hospital cafe with the promise to return soon.

 

Not 10 minutes after she’d been gone a woman in a neatly pressed dress and blazer waltzed into Dean’s room like she owned the place, wedge heels clicking the entire way, head held high.

 

Dean hated her immediately.

 

“Dean Winchester,” The woman addressed, coming to a smooth halt at the right side of his cot and appraising him. Her eyes were aciecent in their focus, but her face was youthful--beautiful. “You’re unwell.”

 

“People in this place usually are.” Dean didn’t know if he meant the hospital or the world in general, but both seemed accurate.

 

The woman gives a sympathetic shake of her head. “What happened? Tell me who did this.”

 

“Who are you, lady? You know,  I don’t usually talk to strangers.” He said, eyes narrowed.

 

“Of course, my apologies. My name is Dina.”

 

Dean waits for more of an explanation. It doesn’t come. He arches an eyebrow at her, and she frowns right back at him. A name meant nothing to him. Dina meant nothing.

 

“Did Samuel not tell you about me after our encounter?” She seems surprised, if not, a little hurt. She raises her brows when Dean doesn’t answer. “I thought for sure he would have told you--you two share everything. A bond like yours comes along very, very rarely among you humans.”

 

So whoever this lady was, she wasn’t a lady at all. She wasn’t human.

 

Suddenly, Dean felt too tired for this, the morphine making it hard to focus.

 

He was too weak to fight, mentally and physically.

 

He pushes himself up into a sitting position, glaring at the woman best he could.  “You gonna tell me who the hell you are or not?” Dean demanded finally, keeping his face hard.

 

“I’m Dina,” She repeats, folding her hands together behind her back. She offers a small smile. “The angel of Learning. The angel that taught all humans how to speak and communicate with each other.”

 

Ah. So this is the one that turned her back to Sam all those years ago when he decided to just---not speak? This is the angel that decided Sam didn’t deserve the words everyone else took for granted, the one that decided Dean didn’t deserve to hear them.

 

He really hated her.

 

Sam deserved all the words in the world, the beautiful ones and the ugly ones, deserved to let them drip off his tongue like melting cotton candy and taste each of their flavors.

 

“Whaddya want with me n’Sammy?” Dean tried to make his voice menacing, but he was so tired.

 

“Everything, of course. You’re all the buzz now, Dean. But first, let’s get you fixed up.” Dina reaches out to him, and places a hand on his forehead. There is a blind moment of panic where Dean is sure she’s about to kill him, just smite him right there on the hospital bed, drugged and defenseless, the death of someone who never even saw it coming and Sam would be alone.

 

But then the pain is gone--and unfortunately, so is the blissed out drugged up effects he’d been feeling. Reality hits hard. The room is brighter than he’d remembered.

 

Dean blinks.

 

She’d healed him. His wound was gone--there wasn’t even a scar, just pale skin stretched out over muscle, dotted with a few freckles the way he’d always been.

 

He is quick to pull out the IV and other strange tubes connected to his body, swinging his legs out the side of the cot and standing up, making a B line for his clothes folded neatly in the corner. Hospital gown isn’t Dean’s color.

 

“Okay, I’m fixed.” Dean says shortly, watching her as he hauled on his things, careful to never show her his back. “Now what, huh?” Actually, he wasn’t sure he was fixed. He felt pretty broken. Wasn’t whole without the one person he needed most.

 

Dina simply sighs, and sits in the plastic chair in the corner of the room, crossing her legs like she was going to be there a while.

 

Dean didn’t have a while. Dean didn’t have any time at all.

 

“Samuel is unfortunately not in the panic room at Mr. Singer’s house at the moment, and he has no plans to return anytime soon.” Dina begins. She watches Dean’s face carefully, calculating his reaction to this news.

 

Dean’s heart throbs painfully at the mention of Sam’s name, and it hurts more to think of Dina’s words as truth, so he choses not to.

 

“You’re lying.” Because she has to be. Dean locked the door and threw away the key. There was no way. No way. “Don’t lie.”

 

Dina smiles. “I didn’t teach humans how to lie, Dean. They learned that all on their own.”

 

“Sam’s safe. He has to be safe.”

 

Dina purses her lips. “I never said he wasn’t..” She murmurs slowly. “The so called panic room at Mr. Singers, was geniously built. It can contain every single supernatural creature--except for Samuel Winchester. In no way, do I mean to insult Mr. Singer by saying that, however--”

 

“Sam isn’t a supernatural creature.” Dean spits through his teeth, fists clenching automatically. “He’s my brother. And he’s fine.” If he wasn’t, Dean would know. He doesn’t know how, but he would.

 

He wanted to kill her for saying that.

 

“Samuel can do things that are beyond human limitations.” Dina allows. “He was angry and powerful enough that he snapped the bonds of the room and simply unlocked the door.”

 

“Where is he now? Why aren’t you with him? Is he okay?” Dean demands, clenching his hands into fists. Sam is out there. Alone. With Heaven and Hell up against him and Dean is here which means he’s not with Sam and--

 

“Breathe, Dean. You’re no good to Samuel if you’re not thinking logically. He needs a warrior at his side, not a child.” Dina’s voice is too light for this situation. Dean wishes he could ball up all the urgency and panic he felt and throw it at her so she could feel it too, so that they could feel it together. He wanted someone to know that this was serious, that his kid was on the line which mean everything, everything was at stake. He wanted to not be alone in this.

 

“He’s fine. No one and nothing will touch him now.”

 

“Why not?” Dean challenges, not trusting the angel for a second. “I mean, that doesn’t make any sense. They’ve been trying forever. It’s the perfect opportunity, ain’t it? He’s alone, probably scared half to death, and I mean--fuck, he’s probably trying to hunt me down like a madman, and he’s an awful driver. If a fucking demon or angel doesn’t kill him, he’ll pretzel himself around a tree, or in a ditch, or--”

 

“Dean.” Dina interrupts. “Both the angels and the demons understand how it’s supposed to happen. You have to be there.”

 

Dean gives her a look, his breathing ragged, waiting for her to explain .

 

“Samuel is radiating emotions that are powerful enough to end the world as we know it. No one, angel or demon, is willing to upset the balance that much. Both sides know that when the final battle is to happen, Samuel will be ‘armed with his guardian at his side, and no army but a few fellow soldiers.’ “ Dina recites, like it’s written somewhere. “They may try to talk him into supporting their side, but no physical harm will come to him.”

 

“I’m his guardian,” Dean says, because it couldn’t be anyone else. He wouldn’t let it be. No one else would do a better job.

 

Dina smiles. “An what an exceptional one you are, Dean Winchester.”

 

Lie. Dean was here, not protecting Sam. That made him an awful guardian in anyone’s book.

 

Dean doesn’t smile back. “Where is my brother.”

 

She sighs. “On a highway, currently. There are angels and demons watching his every move, but they won’t act. They know better.”

 

Dean pinches the bridge of his nose. “Tell me where,  dammit! I have to get to him! Don’t you get that?”

 

“You need to rela--”

 

“If you tell me to relax on more fucking time I’m going to kill you. Got it? Don’t test me on this. I don’t know if you angels can feel the same way we do, but if you can, if you can feel even a goddamn ounce of affection for anything or anyone other than yourselves you would understand maybe just a little.  Sam is my brother, he’s family, and--” Dean almost says, and I’m in love with him, but refrains, biting his tongue just barely in time. “Since I was four years old, that boy has been mine, my responsibility, my pain in the ass, mine to comfort and understand when no one else did. I was the shield between him and the rest of the world before I could count to 100 without stuttering and I’ll be damned if I stop now. Sammy...he’s all I got.” Dean deflates a little, staring at the linoleum tile. “And I’m all he has. So don’t you tell me to relax when the center of my entire fucking universe is out there angry and scared and in danger, driving a car that he got from fuck-knows where, wondering if I’m even alive. Don’t you dare.”

 

Dina sits in stunned silence, taken aback by the very words she taught to the humans, her long lashes blinking once. She sat very still.

 

Dean waits for her to reply. She doesn’t, she hardly even looks at him when he huffs in disgust and leaves the room, slamming the door hard as he does.

 

-

 

Megan is thankful for caffeine, and ammunition. She’s thankful for the lack of angels and demons in the hospital. She’s thankful for her self control and knowing when to not attack when Dean grabs her shoulder and says low in her ear. “I’ve got to get out of here. Sam’s not at Bobby’s. I’ve got to find him.”

 

Megan didn’t fail to notice how Dean had said “I” and not “we”.

 

He wanted to break off, go it alone--finish this battle without her?

 

She turns.

 

“What do you mean Sam isn’t at Bobby’s.” It’s flat. Not a question. “And what are you doing out of bed? How are moving like you aren’t in pain?”

 

“I mean, he’s a fucking angel-boy or whatever, and he escaped, and now he’s fuck-knows-where and I’ve got to find him and make sure he’s okay.” Dean rushes. “And, there was Dina, and angel, she healed me. Look, it’s not important.”

 

Megan ignores the angel, because Dean seems fine, and plows on.

 

“We’re in this together.” She corrects, clenching her jaw. “I’m not letting you go alone. This is a dangerous journey, Dean. Everything we do from here on out--we’re walking on thin ice, and sooner or later, it’s...it’s going to break, and we’re going to fall through. I don’t want you to be alone when that happens.” Her voice is desperate, she’s pleading with him for all that she is. “Don’t be an idiot for once, kid. Come on.”

 

“If anyone knows how dire this situation is, Megs, it’s me, okay? I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, and of course, this...this isn’t me asking you to leave.” Dean looks so much like a child in that moment that a part of Megan aches for him, for his innocence.

 

“Then what are you asking me, Dean?”

 

“I’m telling you that I’ve got a boy to protect, and men to rescue. I’m telling you that the boy is my responsibility, and if you could make the men yours, just for a few days, ‘till I find Sammy--”

 

“Dean…” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “You’re 19 years old. 19.”

 

“And?”

 

“And that’s too young to face Heaven and Hell alone.” She grumbles. It was too young for a lot of things.

 

“Sammy’s mine.” he says simply. “and Bobby could be in big trouble, Megs. I need this from you. I know it’s a lot to ask, but please. Please. That’s my dad. My uncle. Family, y’know?”

 

And Megan is helpless. She can’t say no to green eyes and freckles so she says okay, instead, and Dean dashes off.

 

-

 

Dean, as soon as he is alone in the janitor's closet of the hospital, calls Sam.

 

The first three times, there is no answer.

 

The fourth time, the line connects. Dean, of course, was hardly expecting an answer of hello, but relief sank through him, real and true.

 

“Sammy?” He breathed into the line. “Kid?”

 

There was a soft sniffle that confirmed. That noise couldn’t be duplicated so perfectly by anyone else.

 

Dean’s face lit up.

 

“Fuck, baby,” Dean sank against the door of the closet, his head in his hands. “Sammy. Sam. I’m so sorry. So sorry. I was trying to protect you, I...are you okay?”

 

A little huff of breath. Yeah, Sam was okay, physically. But he didn’t forgive Dean.

 

“Kitten?”

 

A sigh. Silence.

 

“I love you.”

 

Nothing. Not even the sound of a breath, and Sam hangs up.

 

“No! Sam? Sam.” Dean grunts and hangs up on his end, before texting Sam.

  
  


DEAN SAYS:

Sam. Where are you? I’ll come to you. We can get Bobby together. Together.

 

SAM SAYS:

You left

 

And it’s just two words, no punctuation, no capitals. But Dean felt it. And he understood.

 

SAM SAYS:

You were supposed to be the one that never left

 

Dean had nothing to say to that--because Sam was right. Everything...was right. Dean was supposed to be the constant, the one who carried Sam over the broken glass left by the ones who walked in and then walked out without a care of what it would mean to his kid.

 

DEAN:

No. No, Sammy, I didn’t leave you.

 

But he did, and they both know it. He tries again.

 

DEAN SAYS:

I was coming back.

 

SAM SAYS:

It felt like you were saying goodbye forever

 

Because he was. He was, he was, and Sam knew him too well for him to lie. So Dean just takes a deep breath.

 

DEAN SAYS:

I love you. Please tell me where you are so I can come get you. I don’t want you to be alone, babe. Come on.

 

DEAN SAYS:

Sammy. Please.

 

Sam doesn’t answer.

And it is exactly what Dean deserves.

 

-

 

If Sam had his journal right now, he’d write about how scared he is. He’d let his words pour onto the pages like water running through his fingertips. Like time running through his fingertips.

 

He’d let it all out, how he wanted Dean to hold him and shield him away from reality, as selfish as that may be. He wanted uncle Bobby to be safe, he wanted his dad to be alive. He wanted...everything to go back to how it was.

 

Only, Dean would love him. He would never, ever leave.

 

He was never supposed to leave. How could he?

 

Sam grips the steering wheel harder. No. That sort of wishful thinking is exactly what made him vulnerable to the Ghul. He wouldn’t be made weak again. Sam was strong. He had no choice but to be strong.

 

He glances at his phone, and swallows. Dean loves him. He knows.

 

But he still left, and Sam..Sam didn’t think he was ever coming back, and that panic was a real, physical thing inside of him and it made everything he was tremble, felt it down to his core the fact that Dean was just a person.

 

He wasn’t some magical force, some superhero magically placed into Sam’s life. Dean..was just a boy, a boy who would do anything for his brother, sure but a human being nonetheless, and human beings leave and they get hurt and they get killed.

 

They die.

 

Sam pulls over. He has to count to 10 four times before he can breathe without hyperventilating.

 

He grabs his phone and listens to the voicemails Dean had left.

 

“Sammy, please. Just lemme hear you breathe. C’mon.”

 

“Dammit, Sam, pick up the phone.”

 

“Sam. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, but you need to let me know you’re okay.”

 

“Don’t do this, kid. Come on. Just answer, just text me back. Something. Anything, dammit.”

 

“I love you.”

 

“I really love you.”

 

“I love you and I’m scared for you, but not of you. I don’t care that you have angel blood or whatever. You’re still my pain in the ass baby brother and the love of my fucking life, so please, Sam. Just...please.”

 

Sam remembers how to breathe again. He remembers his name, and when he was born, and why he was in a beat up car from his surrogate uncle’s junkyard and he remembered that there were things to do.

 

There were people to find.

 

-

 

Megan lets Dean go, because it’s what she’s supposed to do. It’s what has to be done. Sam’s gotta be saved from himself at this point and Dean is the only one who’s ever been able to do that.

 

But she’s got friends.

 

Her cell phone works just as well as anything to ask them a simple question. Or two.

 

There’s a few calls to be made, but by the end of it, Megan knows it’ll all work out. This story...the ending doesn’t have to be brutal. It doesn’t have to be bloody.

 

She presses the cell to her ear. “Yeah, it’s me. Hi, Meredith. Listen, I need your help.”

-

The room is dark.

 

It is sort of poetic, that the last thing he’ll see is the only thing he’ll see forever after that

 

Darkness. Like his heart ever since she died. Ever since they took her away.

 

“You’re of no use to me,” It croons, circling John. “You’ve been here too long. You’re a waste of time.”

 

John knows. He knows.

 

He’s known for a while. Doesn’t know why they didn’t do it sooner.

 

It’s over.

 

“I could posses you. Use you against your boys.” It considers this, and then shakes it’s ugly head. “No. They don’t listen to you anyways. You’ve given them no reason to, and quite frankly, I’m much too exhausted.”

 

It’s right.

 

John knows it’s right.

 

His boys were too smart to listen to a drunkard like him. And he is proud.

 

He closes his eyes and remains silent. He thinks of Sam’s smile and Dean’s arm slung around him. Protector. Guardian.

 

He thinks of Dean trying to hide his tears and Sam curling around him like a cat.

 

And he smiles. Feels good.

 

They will protect each other. If there is nothing else for him but this dark room and this things dark eyes, he will burn in hell with a smile on his face knowing his wife is in heaven and his boys will be there for each other while they are going through hell on earth.

 

Maybe he couldn’t save them they way he’d always wanted since the day he found out what the world wanted from Sam, but maybe that was never his job. Maybe it was always supposed to be Dean.

 

Bobby is beside him. He doesn’t move, or speak. He is holding his breath. John realizes that he’s scared, and helpless. Can do nothing but watch. Is probably thinking about how he’ll have to tell Sam and Dean that he watched their father die.

 

It’s okay, he thinks, and knows that Bobby can’t hear him, but can’t find the strength to speak aloud. Everything will be okay. As long as they don’t kill Bobby, too.

 

Bobby loved his boys just as much as John loved them. They needed Bobby. They needed each other. And John would die here in this room with a promise to wreak havoc from the other side of the world.

 

“Goodbye, John Winchester.”

 

It stabs him.

 

Hurts, but he remains silent.

 

His last moments are spent recalling the way Sam might sound if he ever got to say goodbye to his father, what sort of things Dean would say if he was given the chance. If John hadn’t messed up.

 

And he drifts.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I hope ya'll don't hate too much after that...but if you do, feel free to come yell at me on tumblr at wincestplease i appreciate it
> 
> YOU ALL HAVE BEEN SO LOVELY I WISH I COULD HUG YOU I DON'T DESERVE ALL THE SUPPORT THIS FIC HAS GOTTEN ILY SO MUCH
> 
> COMMENTS AND KUDOS GIVE ME LIFE XOXOX  
> -Keagan


	28. We Should Just Kiss Like Real People Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I love you.” Dean says again.
> 
> Above them, stars wither and die and the universe doesn’t make a single sound of protest.

Dean doesn’t know where to look.

 

That makes finding Sam harder. It’s never happened before. Anytime his kid has gone missing Dean has had clues, links and ways to connect the dots but now...there’s nothing. His cell phone GPS tracking is turned off. He’s leaving no trace of himself anywhere, and  _ Dean can’t find his fucking kid.  _

 

Until. 

 

Until he gets a text. It’s 5PM, the sun just starting to sink behind orange clouds in a grapefruit sky, he’s at the edge of his desperation, so ready to break it’s a miracle he hasn’t already. His hands feel weak.

 

SAM SAYS:

I’m stalled out on hwy 10 near a convenience store called Quick-E Pit Stop

 

Dean reads the text only once before he’s in the impala, tires squealing.  It’s enough. 

 

He knew the place. It wasn’t far. Sam wasn’t far.

 

It could be a trap--the perfect one. The convenience store was isolated, away from any possible witnesses. It would be easy for something--angel or demon--to get a  hold of Sam’s phone and shoot a simple text to Dean’s. Eliminate the guardian, access the target. Simple. Easy. 

 

He didn’t care. If there was even the slimmest chance Sam really was stalled out, waiting for him, Dean was going.

 

Dean was going.

-

 

Sam doesn’t mean to ask for help.

 

Except that he does.

 

He really, really does.

 

-

 

Bobby tries hard not to look at the body. 

 

Dean has his father’s eyes.

  
  


-

 

Dean gets there in record time, spotting the beat up car immediately, ignoring a twist in his gut when he saw Sam leaning up against the side of the vehicle, looking…. _ beautiful.  _ Alive, and unhurt. 

 

Beautiful. But small. So, unbearably small, as though their time apart had shrunk him. 

 

Sam turns at the sound of the Impala door being shut, but he doesn’t smile. He doesn’t acknowledge Dean in anyway, and he’s too far for Dean to properly read the expression in his eyes but his face is blank. 

 

Dean gets a little closer, half afraid that Sam is possessed, that this is all a trap.

 

And then Sam tilts his head in thought or consideration, something’s he’s done from the time he had enough strength in his neck to lift his head, and Dean  _ knows.  _ It couldn’t be anyone else.

 

Dean makes a little  _ get over here  _ motion with his head because Sam really needs to come closer,  _ now _ , and before he can hardly blink, he’s got an armful of Sam, his slender body pressing into Dean’s, his arms twisting around Dean’s waist so he could press his face into Dean’s chest.

 

_ Sammy. _

 

He’d definitely gotten smaller, in the matter of just a few days. Had he been eating properly? Sleeping well? Was he worried about their father and Bobby? Had he found any leads? Had the angels or demons tried to hurt his kid? 

 

“Hey, kitten.” Dean mumbles, fighting back tears. God, the relief made his toes tingle, his knees feel weak. Sam was in his arms again, and he was okay, and he wasn’t possessed or hurt or anything, he was just  _ Dean’s.  _ “Sammy. Hey, it’s okay. I’m here. I’m right here, I--”

 

Dean was about to say,  _ not gonna leave you,  _ before he catches himself. That isn’t true anymore, and Sam knows it. Dean left. He left, and he’s going to leave again. That is the way his life is supposed to be. He’s meant to die for Sam. He wants this, to leave a beautiful long life for his boy, no matter the cost.

 

Sam notices. He stiffens a little, steps back.  _ You left,  _ he mouths, eyes round and hurt.  _ You left me all alone.  You were the one that was always supposed to stay. _

_ _

 

“I never wanted to go,” Dean said, but it was a weak excuse and they both know it. His arms dangle at his sides, limp. Useless, without something to hold. Without a gun or a knife or Sam.  “But there wasn’t any other choice.”

 

Sam blinks, as if that answer startles him.  _ You should have taken me with you.  _

 

“No.” Dean says immediately. That wasn’t an option. “You’re the one everybody’s after, baby boy. I’d just be bringing you to them in a silver package.” 

 

Sam clenches his jaw, and looks fiercely up at Dean. He seems a lot like their father, in that moment, stubborn jaw and wild, determined eyes, and it terrifies Dean. It terrifies him.  _ This is my fight more than it is yours, Dean. And I  _ am _ going to fight. _

Dean kisses him, until the stubborn set of his jaw melts and Sam kisses him back. “I love you.” Dean says desperately. The wind carries his voice away, lifts it over mountain tops and whispers it through the branches of trees that ache eternally towards the caress of the sun, making them immortal. “I love you,” He says again. “I love you, I love you, I  _ love  _ you.” 

Sam’s crying, and Dean only knows because he can taste the saltiness of Sam’s tears and feel the difficulty in which his kid is breathing, choked little breaths that chug and chug their way out of his throat.

“I love you.” Dean says again. 

Above them, stars wither and die and the universe doesn’t make a single sound of protest. 

-

They find a motel room with one bed that’s cheap enough they can afford it. It’s dusty, but clean enough. A little slice of Heaven. A little world they can run away and hide in, even if it’s just for a few hours. The end of the world can wait. 

Sam sits on the edge of the bed and stares blankly at the carpet, an old green color that went out of style before he was born. He hasn’t attempted to communicate with Dean, but held his hand on the drive over to the motel in a tight grip.

Dean calls Megan. 

“I’ve got Sammy,” He says, instead of saying  _ hello.  _ “He’s with me now. We’re..” Dean didn’t know what they were. “Alive.” That, at least, wasn’t a lie. 

Megan sounds tired when she says, “Good,” and nothing else for a long time.

“Yeah.” He wonders if it really was good. His own voice sounds far away to his ears.

A long pause. “Meredith is with me.” 

Dean blinks.  _ Meredith.  _  It all came back in a flurry, all those months ago, when she helped to bring Sam back. Meredith, with her skin like the night sky and her aggressively gentle way of moving. 

“Why?” He finds himself asking. As far as he knows, Meredith has no fighting experience, which is what they’ll need. And, although she can do some pretty witchy things, she isn’t actually a witch by trade. Psychic and witch are two very different things, and Dean had no use for a palm reader in war. 

And this  _ was  _ war.

“She knows the prophecies like the back of her hand, and she knows more about magic than any other human I’ve met.”  Megan says proudly. “She can sense when something is about to happen. I don’t know Dean--I think we could use it as an edge.” 

“We’ll need all the help we can get.” Dean allows finally, too tired to argue. “Does she understand the risk?” 

There’s a slight jostling on the phone. 

“Hi, honey,” Meredith’s cinnamon sugar voice makes Dean smile among this hell. Familiar. Motherly.

“Hey, Meredith.” Dean greets softly. “It’s good to hear from you again.” He doesn’t have time for pleasantries, he knows, but he can’t resist. Meredith..she did so much for him. “Um, thanks for wanting to help. We need it.” 

Sam looks up at that. His hazel eyes find Dean’s. There is no expression there. They flit away again, back to the carpet. His jaw is tight. Dean wants to kiss him until the day turns into night and that rotation happens a thousand times over and over again, without their participation. 

“Don’t lie to yourself, Dean. You know exactly what it is you’re up against--the two strongest forces in the world. And what have you got to go against them?” 

Dean cuts her off. “We’ve got enough.” They’ve got an angry woman with hair like fire, and two men who’ve been hunting longer than Dean has been alive, and Sam with his silent power, and they’ve got  _ Dean ,  _ who will stop at nothing for his brother.

“Do you?” 

“Yes.” Dean is sure of this. It doesn’t feel like a lie. “We’re going to win. I don’t care if it was just me and Sammy up against those bastards. I don’t care if I have to rip each one of them apart by hand, limb from limb, until they’re extinct. I’ll do it. I’ll do whatever it takes.” Dean’s voice is cold as ice and hard as diamonds, shattering the peaceful air in the motel room. 

“You’re willing to die.” Meredith doesn’t say it like a question. 

Dean snorts, his voice dipping dangerously. “Oh," He says softly. "I'm counting on it." He glances at Sam, glad he can only hear one side of this conversation. “I’m willing to let everyone die.” He lowers his voice to a murmur. And it’s true--there isn’t a person on this planet that is worthy of life over Sam. No one. After a moment of her not saying anything, Dean swallows. “is that bad?” 

Meredith sighs very softly on the other end of the line, static brushing against Dean’s ear. “It’s exactly what the prophecies claimed.”

Dean doesn’t know what to say to that, so he says nothing. 

Megan’s voice is the next one he hears on the other end. “Dean. It’s me again. You okay, kid?”

“‘Course,” Dean says roughly. “Uh, listen, I think Sammy and I are just gonna take the night off--stay in, try to relax a little, you know? I suggest you and Meredith do the same. We all need it. Things are going to get ugly pretty soon.”  _ This could be the last Good Day, ever. The last Peaceful night. _

Megan lets out a little sigh. “Yeah, Dean. Sure.” She pauses, clearing her throat. “And, uh, kid?”

“Yeah?” 

“You’ve done a good job. With Sam, I mean. Raising him. ‘Cause..I know you did. And you’re keepin’ him safe now. Just--” She huffs, trying to find the words. “You’re doing a good job. Doing what’s right for him.”

Dean smiles. It’s soft, and small, but not sad. “He’s done a pretty good job with me, too,” Dean snorts, glancing at Sam, who meets his eyes with a doe eyed stare. “Bye, Megs. And thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Stay in tonight, Dean. I mean it. Goodbye.”

The line goes dead.

Dean turns to Sam.

“Baby,” He says, voice breaking a little when Sam turns his body away from Dean, effectively shutting down the conversation. Dean steps closer, and tries again. “Kitten, come on. Please.”

Sam knows what he’s asking for, but he folds his skinny arms over his chest and looks down at his lap, brow furrowed.

Dean sits down beside him, but gives Sam distance, fiddling with his own hands in his lap uncomfortably, knowing they’d do better things running up and down Sam’s body.

“Remember the very first time I went on that hunt with dad? I was...what....8 or 9 years old?” Dean begins gently. “It was right after you’d started kindergarten, and it was so hard for us to be apart. You would cry and pout anytime we were separated.” Dean loved those days--when he felt so needed by Sam that everyone knew how much his presence soothed his little brother. “And before I left, I told you, ‘Sammy, m’gonna be gone a few days, so you’re gonna stay with uncle Bobby, and you’ve gotta behave’.” Dean snorts. “And when I got back, you cried for hours. You were glued to my side for days afterward, like you were scared I was gonna leave you again.” Dean swallows. “And I did.”

 

Sam flinches like that physically hurt him, but he doesn’t do anything else. 

 

“But listen, baby, Sammy. Listen. I can’t lose you, alright? I can’t. I can’t lose you.” Dean shakes his head. “No. I  _ can’t.  _ I don’t wanna picture it. Hurts. And--and they want you, kitten, they wanna hurt you and make you cry and I wouldn’t be able to protect you if I was away and I had to be there but I had to go find dad and Bobby ‘cause we needed them and I didn’t know what to do. I was scared.” Dean realizes he’s crying when he opens his eyes to find Sam’s face soft and open, his long fingers reaching up to wipe at the tears under Dean’s eyes with his thumbs. Dean can’t stop. “I knew that I was gonna hurt you when I left but it’d be better that if you were unhurt and hated me than the opposite. But please don’t be mad, Sammy. Please don’t be mad, ‘cause I just wanna keep you safe.”

 

Sam makes a soft noise that sounds like a sniffle, and then Sam’s hands guide Dean’s head to rest on Sam’s lap, and he strokes his fingers through Dean’s hair and lets Dean cry, and he doesn’t tell Dean to  _ shh  _ or push him away.

 

Dean lets himself be taken care of, for once in his life, and Sam is happy to be the one allowed that privilege. And a privilege it was.

 

-

 

Megan calls Kyle. 

Tells him she loves him.

He only hears her saying  _ goodbye. _

-

 

It didn’t last very long. About 20 minutes, and then Dean is sitting up and wiping his eyes, that have been too dry for too much of this awfulness, and he’s so tired and so in love.

 

“Sam,” He says, and he takes his kids face into his hands and presses their foreheads together. “I want to make love to you.”

 

He’s close enough that he feels Sam’s shiver start through him, and Sam’s lips part, his tongue darting out to lick at them, but he doesn’t say anything.

 

“I want to lay you down, spread you out, and kiss every part of you, ‘till you feel...smothered by me,” Dean whispers, gripping Sam’s face a little tighter, before smoothing his hands over Sam’s arms and lacing their fingers together. “Let me show you how much I love you.” 

 

Sam’s lips part further, and the breath he breathes sounds like he’s trying to say something, but no sound comes out. 

 

“Do you want that?” Dean pleads, staring into Sam’s hazel eyes. “Tell me if you don’t, Sam, and I’ll stop. You gotta tell me.” 

 

Sam’s eyes fall shut.  _ Want it,  _ he mouths, very precisely.  Even if Dean wasn’t trained in the art of reading Sam’s pink lips, he’d have understood. 

 

“M’gonna show you,” Dean promised, voice breathy, as he brushed their lips together ever so slightly. Sam huffs and tries to turn into Dean, tries to make the kiss something biting and harsh, his slender hands gripping at Dean’s shirt. 

 

But Dean is nothing if not persistent. He keeps his mouth lax, taking Sam’s bitterness and returning only sweetness, only love. His hands wrap around Sam’s and loosen them from his shirt, tangling their fingers together, and squeezing, grounding Sam to him. 

 

He trails kisses over Sam’s face--his forehead, his cheeks, the tip of his nose, each eyelid, his chin, his dimples, before finally, landing once again on his lips, tongue carefully tracing the outline of Sam’s cupid’s bow. 

 

Dean, as he promised, carefully scoops Sam up and places him on the motel bed, seeing Sam’s lanky limbs stretch out beautifully before him, his baby brother watching him with hazel eyes, pupils dark and full of wonder. 

 

“Let me take care of you,” Dean murmured, sliding off Sam’s shirt, and then his own, leaning over his boy’s chest to trail wet, promising kisses down Sam’s body, paying attention to the rosy nipples that perked up at the flick of his tongue. 

 

“You’re so beautiful,” He praised, hands mapping Sam  out, like they liked every part of him so much, Dean couldn’t decide where to rest them. “So gorgeous, so perfect for me.”

 

Sam made a small sound, that sounded like a whimper, or a sob, Dean didn’t know--but it was noise, and that was a rare thing coming from his silent kid. He meets Sam’s eyes, and sees that Sam looks lost, watching Dean with something of confused wonder--Dean is going to make him see. Make him understand.

 

Pants are next. Dean slides them away gracefully, until they’re both naked, and then it’s skin on skin and it’s exactly what they both needed, especially given the near violent shudder that rips out of Sam when Dean’s tongue flicks at the head of his hard cock.

 

His hand wraps around it, and Sam arches off the bed, his back a perfect C. Dean urges him back down gently, pumping his hand over Sam’s length with slow, languorous movements. “I’ve got you, baby.” He licks again, and then kisses Sam’s inner thigh, his hip, his belly button. “I’m right here.” 

 

Sam’s biting his bottom lip so hard, Dean is afraid he’s going to hurt himself. He eases off, hands leaving Sam’s dick in favor of cradling him, kissing his neck and whispering the sweetest of promises into his skin. 

 

“More,” Sam pleads, and his voice cuts through the air like a knife, making both of them freeze. Dean would die for this, could die happy now that he’s heard that wrecked voice again, so beautiful and ringing. 

 

“Going to give you every part of me,” Dean’s voice breaks. “Everything. S’yours. And you’re mine, aren’t you, kitten?” It’s a plea, less than a question, and Dean knows his eyes are wild when they meet Sam’s. 

 

Sam swallows, and nods quickly. “I’m yours, De.” 

 

Dean wants to cry out, wants to scream with the beauty of the admission, nearly holds Sam down and bites harshly into his mouth, but he forces his movements to continue to be measured, to be careful.

 

He runs his hands over the soft, vulnerable flesh of Sam’s inner thighs, and grinds them slowly, eagerly, together, their cocks brushing and rubbing, giving them each the friction they so desired.

 

Sam, again, tried to make it something harsher, wrapped his long legs around Dean’s hips and thrust up maniacally, quick, stuttered movements that made them both gasp, causing Dean to lose his focus for a blind moment of utter pleasure before he grabbing Sam’s hips to still them, forcing him back down to the bed. 

 

“I’m going to make you feel good,” Dean promises, voice uneven. “You just relax, okay, baby boy? This is for you. S’all for you.” 

 

“No,” Sam whispers, his voice like a windchime, like a saving grace. These moments felt like dreams. Fleeting and an almost not-there-kind-of-beautiful.  “For you, too.”

 

Dean’s eyes smile. His lips are busy brushing over Sam’s skin. “Okay. For us, then,  yeah?”

 

Sam nodded, placated, and his body relaxed slightly, to Dean’s delight. 

 

He kissed Sam all over, just like he promised. His neck, his shoulders, down his biceps and forearms, surprised to learn that Sam was less and less bone and more wiry muscle, dying to burst into something more mature, to be someone that won’t be able to curl up in Dean’s lap, small as a kitten anymore. 

 

Dean was terrified of that day, but determined to get Sam past this rough patch, past this danger, and into a time where he could do just that--grow old. He  _ wanted  _ that for Sam. He wanted everything for Sam, was so greedy with all that he wanted for his little brother.

 

He kissed along each knuckle, before stroking his lips with a barely-there pressure down Sam’s torso, licking carefully at rosy nipples as Sam arched off the bed, his slender fingers scrabbling for purchase against Dean’s back. 

 

“Just relax,” Dean whispered. With one hand, he cradled Sam’s hip. The other dipped off the side of the bed, to dig around in his duffel he’ d brought, trying to search out--there. Lube and condoms. 

 

When he slicked up his fingers and pushed one in slowly, to the first knuckle, Sam’s mouth fell open, but he didn’t make a sound.

 

“You’re okay,” Dean urges. He tries to remind himself to be extra careful, that Sam is still pretty new to this, that he can’t hurt him, no matter what. “I’ve got you, baby, just breathe. S’gonna feel good.”

 

Sam is so, so good for him, because he relaxes like all it took was Dean asking, and Dean slips another finger in, this time, pushing deeper.

 

Sam makes a small sound of protest, and wriggles a little, so Dean stills, keeping his fingers where they are but giving his boy a moment to adjust. “Doing so good for me,” He praised. “So beautiful.”

 

Sam blinks up at Dean, eyes wide and wet, but happy in a way that Dean had missed so violently. He kisses under each eye, and then catches Sam’s lips in a gentle, slow kiss, a he works his fingers again, trying to loosen Sam up, relax him. Cherish him. 

 

“More,” Sam whispers finally, his beautiful, unused voice so kitten-soft against Dean’s lips. “Please?”

 

Dean has never been able to say no, so when he starts to add another finger, Sam isn’t surprised. However, it’s not what he wanted, and he twists a little, pulling away.

 

“Sam?” Dean asks, alarmed. “Hey--am I hurting you? What’s wrong?”

 

“Not fingers,” Sam pants. His hair sticks to his forehead with sweat. Dean can tell he’s trying so hard to focus, to get the words out, and he’s so proud of his kid--for everything. The love he feels swells up in his chest and makes him swallow hard. “Y’know,” Sam gestures down to the hard line of Dean’s cock, resting heavy between them. 

 

Dean smiles, and pushes Sam’s hair out of his eyes with his free hand, pulling the other one out and reaching for a condom. “Okay,” He whispers. “Okay, kitten. Whatever you want. Takin’ care of you.”

 

Sam seems pleased with this, and he wiggles into a more comfortable position, watching as Dean rolls the condom on, a happy little smile on his lips, gangly limbs strewn about. 

 

“How?” Dean asks, after he’s gathered enough lube in his hands and onto his dick that he knows he won’t hurt Sam. “What the hell did I do right to get you? Y’know, I think about that, a lot,” Dean says, as he lines the head of his cock up with Sam’s hole. “And I’m still coming up blank. You’re just,” He pushes his hips forward slowly, feeling Sam’s tight heat envelop him, connecting them. “too good.” Dean gasps when Sam jerks his hips up, burying Dean balls-deep into his baby brother.

 

He presses his face into Sam’s neck and breathes hard, trying to find the control. He wanted to go slow, to relish this. This...could be the last time he ever has this. 

 

“Are you...okay?” Dean pants heavily. “M’not hurting you, right?”

 

He can practically  _ hear  _ sam roll his eyes. “No, jerk. Move?” 

 

Dean licks at Sam’s neck, the bruises that are starting to bloom there looking so beautiful against his pale skin. “Mm. Gimme a sec.”

 

Sam huffed, but Dean knew he was smiling, so he took his time, before finally pushing forward a little more, and draw his hips slow, tight circles, drawing a long, breathy moan out of Sam.

 

“S-Stop,” Sam pleads, and Dean stills immediately, searching his face of signs of pain. He didn’t find any. “I--won’t last. If you keep that up.” 

 

Dean chuckled darkly, and licked into Sam’s mouth, before finally giving in, giving his baby brother what he really wanted, until they were both spent and panting.

 

The mess of come will be even less pleasant when it dries, Dean knows, so he reaches blindly for a t shirt and sops up the majority of the mess, before pulling Sam back against him, pleased at how pliant and relaxed Sam seems.

 

“I love you,” Dean says. It’s enough, for now, just to have this. The stars, and the motel room, and the beginning of everything that has ever meant anything right here in his arms.

 

Sam doesn’t make a sound, but there’s a slight hitching in his breath that tells Dean he’s  _ trying,  _ and then Sam gets sort of stiff and pushes his face into Dean’s neck, clearly done trying to make conversation. 

 

“I know, baby boy.” Dean says into Sam’s hair, his arms wrapped tightly around his kid. “It’s okay--I know.” And he does know, and he takes a moment to think about how lucky he is to have this, right now.

 

The silence settles around them like a blanket, warm, and comforting. This is something they have always known.

 

Sam’s breathing evens out, and Dean kisses his head, pulling him a little tighter and watching the ceiling.

 

Dean was vulnerable right now--he knew that. Sam’s weight, while light, was still a burden to remove if someone, or something, decided to attack. It would take too long to jump in front of his baby brother. Dean was naked. There were no weapons within easy reach and the boundlessness he was experiencing probably wouldn’t help either.

 

Sam snuffled into his neck and pressed impossibly closer.

 

Dean was vulnerable right now. But here, with Sam in his arms, he had never felt stronger.

 

He closes his eyes, and sleeps.

 

The universe begins to snore.

 

-

“This is getting ridiculous!” A demon screams, slamming the door as it enters the small, dark room Bobby was being kept in. It threw a slice of bread at Bobby. 

 

Bobby ate. 

 

At least they’d removed John’s body. It had been starting to smell.

 

“We’ve done everything--killed their father, took you..and still, they stay away.” It snarls, circling Bobby’s chair like a shark. “I thought Dean Winchester was supposed to be feared by everything inhuman. Someone who avoids danger hardly seems like a threat. He’s nothing but a  _ coward. _ ”

 

Bobby purses his lips, and doesn’t say anything. 

 

“I’ve got to take matters into my own hands. Master expects  _ results.  _ We’ve waited much too long already. We haven’t any more time to be discrete about it.”  It hisses to itself, halting in it’s pacing and putting a hand on the door. “I’ll call the Winchesters. Tell them everything. Where to meet us.” It’s lips pull back in a sinister smile that less of a grin and more of a snarl. “Let’s get this show on the road”

 

-

  
Less than 100 miles away, in a dusty motel room curled around his big brother, Sam Winchester begins to dream.


	29. Don't Give Up (Don't You Quit On Me)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And she does know.  
> They're all going to die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHH. Do you hate me yet? THIS CHAPTER TOOK FOR.EV.ER. AND IM SO SORRY. BUT I LOVE ALL OF YOU SO MUCH. Your support means everything to me, and if not for all the beautiful encouragement this fic would have never made it past 20k. Seeing your comments and getting your messages on tumblr means the world to me and always makes me want to write more! Thank you so so so so so much. I hope you enjoy!!

 

_**"I'm a hero and a monster, so tie me to the chair, 'cause the moon's gonna rise no matter what".** -  **Penny and Sparrow**_

______________________________________________________

_ “Sammy,”  _

 

_ Sam sees white everywhere, and it blinds him, makes hims squint and blink hard. _

 

_ “Samuel.”  _

 

_ He doesn’t know that voice. It sounds desperate, and it’s terribly loud. He curls in on himself and tries to ignore it. It rattles his breastbone. _

 

_ “Open your eyes, boy, and see what you will.”  _

 

_ As Sam opens his eyes, the white has faded into darkness. Slowly, as his eyes adjust, more comes into view. A dark room, cold with concrete floors and walls. A single lightbulb in the middle of the room flickers to life. _

 

_ Sam swallows hard. He should have expected this. _

 

_ Bobby is tied to a chair, looking older than Sam has ever seen him, the tiredness in his eyes making him seem defeated.  _

 

_ Bobby Singer is never defeated.  _

 

_ “Bobby?” Sam tries, reaching out for him.  He’s speaking. He’s  _ dreaming.

 

_ This is just a stupid dream.  _

 

_ “Sammy. It’s time. It’s time for this to be over. This waiting is draining the life out of everyone you love.” It’s not Bobby’s voice, and that’s almost worse. He longed to hear it, that old drawl, the comfort of it.  _

 

_ Sam is suddenly stuck, he can’t move towards Bobby and he can’t get the man to meet his gaze. _

 

_ “Bobby, where are you? Just--I’m so sorry, Bobby, I’ll fix everything. Just tell me where you are.” Sam pleads. And he knows it’s a dream, can feel it in the rattle his voice makes in his throat but the desperation is so raw, and so real, that he can’t think of anything else.  _

 

_ “Don’t you want to find him, Sam?”  it asks. “Don’t you want to save him? This is all your fault. Don’t you want to make it better?”  _

 

_ “Yes!” Sam cries, feeling his eyes fill. “Yes,--just tell me how! I’ll do anything, just...tell me what to do!” _

 

_ There is a pause. It feel smug to Sam. _

 

_ “When you get in the car with your brother, you’ll know. Let your mind lead.” The voice said contentedly. “Do not waste any time.” _

 

_ “This isn’t real.” Sam breathes. “Bobby? Can you hear me?” _

 

_ “He’s going to die” The voice said plainly. “They’re going to kill him very soon, if you don’t show up.”  _

 

_ Suddenly, the voice shifts to sound like his father--except Sam can only remember a few occasions where the man had ever sounded that gentle when speaking to him or Dean.  _

 

_ “You have to find him, Sam.” His father pleads. “Before it’s too late. Before he ends up...like me.” _

 

_ Sam circles Bobby’s chair, and frowns when he sees a puddle of  blood. _

 

_ John, in a pool of red. John, with cloudy eyes and a smile on his lips, his pale skin looking nothing like the father Sam remembered. _

 

_ He screams. _

_ - _

Dean wakes up in a cold sweat. 

 

His sleep had been blissfully dark and dreamless, but there is something off in the stirr of the air around him, a twisting in his gut. The room is still dark. The clock reads 4:08AM. 

 

Sam’s missing. 

 

Dean bolts awake, hastily pulls on boxers lying carelessly on the floor beside the bed and tries to calm his racing heart. 

 

_ No. No, no, no.  _ Sammy. Sam. Not now. Not this. Not him.

 

“Sam?” Dean says carefully, although the motel room is small and--

 

The bathroom light is on. 

 

Dean sags heavily against the wall, and feels very old. 

 

He knocks twice. “Sam? You in there?” 

 

Sam opens the door immediately. He is wearing only one of Dean’s t shirts. His hair is disheveled, and his body sags in a way that makes him look exhausted, but his eyes are wide and alert. His face was slightly wet, as though he’d been splashing water on it. 

 

“What’re you doing awake, Sammy?” Dean asks, still not completely recovered from the fright he’d gotten when Sam hadn’t been beside him  upon waking up. “Come back to bed.”

 

When Dean tries to tug his hand, Sam jerks back. 

 

Dean freezes.

 

“Sammy?” 

 

Sam blinks, and inhales a shaky breath.  _ Dad is dead. _

 

Dean, stupidly, doesn’t do anything. He tilts his head at Sam and frowns, thinking he read Sam’s lips wrong. But of course, Dean never does. He knows that mouth, understands those lips, even if they spoke Chinese, or French, or Italian or---

 

_ Dad is gone, Dean. They killed him, ‘cause of me. _

 

Deans face smooths as he realizes. “You had a nightmare, didn’t you?” 

 

_ I..  _ Sam bites his lip.  _ Yes. But it was real, Dean. It felt real. I think maybe it was a premonition. There was this voice, and it told me to leave, right now, to find Bobby before it was too late. It said that if I just got in the car, I’d know where to go.  _

 

It was too fucking early for this. Dean runs a hand through his hair and wishes for some open road and some sunny afternoon with Nirvana cranked too loud and his kid next to him with not a worry in the world.

 

“It was just a bad dream, baby boy.” Dean says, and reaches out again for Sam. Sam shakes his head, and steps out of Dean’s reach once more.

 

It hurts. 

 

_ No, Dean, listen to me. I’m not an idiot, okay? And I’m not human. Meredith said--  _

 

“You talked to Meredith?” 

 

_ I was texting her. Look, she said that you just know, when a dream is something more than a dream. You’ll feel it in your gut. And I felt it, Dean. I’m feeling it right now.  _

 

“She’s a psychic, Sam. That’s--it’s not the same thing. You just have angel blood--”

 

_ Just?  _ Just  _ have angel blood? Dean, I’m a..a hybrid. It’s not normal, and these are the sort of things that come along with not normal.  _

 

“You’re just shaken up.” Dean pleads. His father...his dad wasn’t dead. Could be dead. Not really. John Winchester was immortal--right? Nothing could beat his dad--not the biggest, baddest thing out there. And Sam was just a boy. He couldn’t predict death. 

 

_ De.  _ Sam looked up at him, wide hazel eyes, full of fear and worry and everything Dean loved.  _ You have to believe me.  _

 

Dean took a deep breath. This was Sam. Sam...he knew things. He knew things sometimes that haven’t happened yet. 

 

If that was the case, then there really was time. He could still save his father.

 

“Okay.” He said, and for the third time, tried to pull Sam in. This time, Sam allows it, sagging gratefully into Dean, warm and boneless, as if Dean had just taken the weight of the world off of his slender shoulders. “Okay, kitten. So what now?” 

 

_ Now,  _ Sam traces on his chest with shaking fingers,  _ we drive. _

 

-

 

Megan’s phone rings only once before her hand snatches out to grab it, and she presses it gratefully to her ear. She’d been wide awake most of the night. “Talk to me.” She demands. “Everybody okay?” 

 

“Fine.” Dean says. He sounds strong--ready for battle. As if he’d been given a new purpose to rush into the fires of both Heaven and Hell. “It’s time.”

 

Megan’s heart forgets how to work for a second. “We aren’t ready.” She panics. “God, Dean, we aren’t ready.” 

 

“Calm down,” Dean snaps, voice full of authority. “We  _ are  _ ready. We are as ready now as we’ll ever be, Megan. Stay with me here. I need your help. I need you to stay calm.” 

 

Megan swallows and nods. She thinks of Jake, and of Kyle. She knows they’ll be okay without her. She know’s they’ll have to be.

 

“Okay.” She agrees, nodding. “I’ll call Meredith. Do you want me to gather up some other hunters? I know some people who might be willing to--”

 

“No.” Dean says sharply. There is a slight pause before he adds, “I just. Minimize the casualties, you know? And I don’t want to extend this circle of trust any further than I already have. No one get’s close to Sam, understood?”

 

She closes her eyes. Dean’s youth was perhaps non existent. “I know.” And she does know.

 

They’re all going to die. 

 

-

 

Meredith is already awake when Megan knocks on the door of their conjoined hotel room, much to Megan’s surprise. 

 

“Yes,” she says pleasantly, already dressed in her all white attire, freshly drawn white sigils of all sorts of things dancing up her arms, encircling her neck and climbing her calves. “It’s time. I know.” 

 

Megan takes a second to balk at her beauty, the earthliness of it.

 

Tucked into her wide halo of midnight colored curls is an arrangement of all sorts of white herbs and flowers, as if the mass of it were some sort of holy garden. Her dress long sleeved and flowy all around--Megan could already picture it billowing in the wind around her--and her lipstick was as black and as lovely as her skin. 

 

She looked delicate. As delicate as bullet proof glass. 

 

She smiled slowly, and twirled for Megan. “Look good, feel good, my child.” Meredith smiles. 

 

Megan looks down at her own outfit--clad in all black, her pants with many pockets to store weapons. She looked dangerous, she knew. She took her short lob of red hair out of the hastily done ponytail and allowed it to fall upon the tips of her shoulders, as bright as a flame. 

 

“Better.” Meredith praised. “Now. Let’s get this show on the road. We’ve got a boy to protect.” 

 

-

 

The drive is silent. Dean drives, Sam points where to go. They don’t communicate any further than that. The radio stays off. The windows stay up. The air is thick and stale.

 

They both know what’s coming, and Dean isn’t ready.

 

Physically, sure. He’s got every weapon he owns loaded in the Impala, and he’s an excellent fighter. He knows just how to handle himself, is prepared to fight dirty in any way he can...but god, he isn’t ready to die.

 

He’s much too selfish, can’t imagine this being the end of his time with Sam. What would Sam do without him? Who would tell the little shit when he was being too stubborn, or too forgiving, or too beautiful? Who would kiss him when he got frustrated with himself? 

 

If Dean isn’t here, who’s going to tell Sam how goddamn important he is? 

 

Dean glances to his right to find Sam already watching him, hazel eyes clouded and full of apprehension. 

 

_ Stop that, _ Sam mouths, brow set tightly. 

 

Dean is surprised, readjusting his grip on the steering wheel. “I’m not doing anything.”

 

_ You’re thinking about saying goodbye.  _ Sam pauses at Dean’s shocked expression.  _ No, that wasn’t some angel blood thing. I just….know you. _

 

Dean turns back to the road. “This is gonna be ugly, Sam. I’m not going to pretend any different.” 

 

Sam swallows, and looks ahead.  _ Turn left. _

 

-

Sam Winchester was always a smart kid. Top of his class, straight A’s on all assignments and tests with ease despite the topsy turby world in which he resided--moving from school to school, never staying in one place long enough, and knowing all too much about exactly what lurked in the shadows. But there was sure as hell a lot he didn’t know. Why he could kill demons, or how his dreams sometimes came true (and never in the good ways), or how all these people are willing to die for him.

 

Their “army”, as Dean calls it, may be small, but there is no doubt they’re committed, and extremely talented. And all, of course, willing to give their lives to protect Sam from Heaven and Hell. 

 

It wasn’t fair. Sam didn’t understand it. He was just a boy who couldn’t even speak. He was just a boy, just skin stretched precariously over bones, just hazel eyes and shaggy hair. Just a little brother, a son, a teenager in the back of the class. 

 

Meredith, she was beautiful. Like a storm--magnificent and terrifying and soothing all at once, with her strange ways of talking and her worn hands. She knew so much--that knowledge alone should be more valuable than Sam.

 

Megan, with her husband and Kyle, who loved her, who  _ needed  _ her. Sam can’t even imagine what Megan’s death would do to Jacob. If he was in those shoes, if it was Dean running away to risk his life for some kid he didn’t even know---he couldn’t. He just. He can’t even imagine a world where Dean doesn’t exist.

 

Dean. Dean, who will be the first to give up his life. Sam is not under an illusion that Dean is planning on making it out of this alive. His brother is planning on dying, banking on it. Sam can read the determination in eyes, sees the sadness and the longing everytime they kiss. 

 

Sam isn’t going to let that happen. 

 

Sam….Sam will surrender. 

 

__

 

They meet up with Megan and Meredith at a small diner in the middle of nowhere. Dean parks the impala close to the door, just in case, and Megan parks next to him. 

 

“First sign of danger and we’re out of here.” Dean says, shutting off the engine and pocketing a knife. He pauses, and then slides a second one into his boot. His ever-present gun is a reassuring pressure against his hip. “We stay together. Deal? No bathroom breaks, no wandering off. Buddy system.”

 

Sam clenches and unclenches his jaw. He doesn’t mouth anything, but Dean can fill in the blank. Something along the lines of,  _ we shouldn’t be stopping.  _

 

“You haven’t eaten in almost two days.” Dean points out, at Sam’s defiant glare.

 

_ Not hungry. _

 

“I didn’t ask. Now c’mon.” Dean gets out, and Sam follows, although begrudgingly. Megan and Meredith are standing by the door, glancing around as if they are expecting an attack right there. 

 

Meredith spots Sam and immediately approaches him, pulling him into her arms, and kissing his head. “I know, boy.” She whispers, soft enough that Dean can barely hear. “It’ll get better.” 

 

The thing was, no one believed it. 

 

“Let’s eat.” Megan says finally. “In and out of here as quickly as possible. We need to come up with a game plan, because things are going to get ugly very quickly, and we’ll need every advantage possible if we want to stand a chance.”

 

Dean nods, and gently tugs Sam by his belt loops away from Meredith, unable to help the wave of possessiveness he feels over someone else trying to take care of his boy. He slings an arm around Sam’s shoulder and is relieved when he feels Sam sag into him. Despite all the tension on the long car ride here, this is  _ right.  _ The way it’s always been.

 

“She’s right,” Dean murmurs into Sam’s hair, squeezing him reassuringly. “It’ll get better.” 

 

Sam looks up at Dean. His eyes are so big, and so innocent, that it breaks Dean’s heart. He was wrong.  _ Sam  _ really did believe that it would get better. 

 

So Dean just had to make sure it  _ did.  _

 

-

 

They find a booth where Sam and Dean can sit with their back against a wall, with a good view of each entrance and exit. There was  no room for mistakes anymore. They all order without really thinking of food. Everyone’s mind is on the upcoming battle, the possibilities and different ways it could go. 

 

“We need a plan.” Megan repeats, once the waitress disappears with their order. 

 

Under the table, Sam is clutching onto Dean’s hand for dear life. 

 

“They have Bobby, and our dad.” Dean says, voice low. “Sam had a...a dream. He knows where they are. That’s where we’re headed. From there, we’ll figure it out as we go. Chances are, dad and Bobby will have learned something that’ll help us out.” At least, Dean was hoping. Counting on it.

 

_ We’re close,  _ Sam mouths to Dean. Dean squeezes his hand reassuringly. 

 

Megan shifts in her seat. “Okay,” She agrees carefully. She’s playing idly with the wedding band around her finger. “But once we get there... chances are, us coming to rescue John and Bobby was the whole point of them taking the two in the first place. They’ll be expecting us. They’ll be ready.” She pauses. “ _ If  _ they really even  _ do  _ have them. I mean, this could all be a trap. Angels have gotten into Sam’s head before, haven’t they?” 

 

_ It’s real.  _ Sam mouths stubbornly, at the same time Meredith says, “He knows what he felt.” 

 

Dean is nodding, plowing right over the tension. They don’t have the time. “It’s a trap. They want us there, no doubt. But we can still have the element of surprise if we approach this right. They’re desperate to follow orders and don’t do a lot of their thinking on their own. Unless.” 

 

Sam stares down at the worn wood of the table, picking at a gauge in it absently with his finger, not really listening to the conversation anymore. All he can think about is death. The amount of blood there will be on the final battle field. Dean’s green eyes, cloudy and unseeing. 

 

He could lose everyone at this table. He could wipe out the  _ entire population.  _ This was bigger than just him. Heaven and Hell don’t give a damn about human life. They’ll kill everyone without even flinching. 

 

And it would, without a doubt, be all of his fault. Dean Winchester didn’t have a soft spot for much, but Sam knew that he was his brothers biggest weakness, the one thing that could bring him down without question. This, whatever it was that ran through his veins, it made him impure, it made him dangerous, especially to Dean, who would stop at nothing to keep him safe.

 

He was able to escape the panic room at Bobby’s--there was no telling what else he’d be capable of, or what might have happened if someone else was in the room with him. 

 

He could have killed them without even meaning to. Without even realizing it. 

 

He’d made up his mind. When the time came, Sam would give himself up. Let them have him, let them do what they will, if only Dean and the others get to live.

 

Sam snuggles closer into his big brother’s side, enjoying this while he can and not caring about what the others thing,, but Dean has launched into battle tactics and possible hideouts where the demons or angels could have Bobby and John, and he doesn’t notice. His eyes are ablaze with the fierceness that comes with the thrill of war. When he’s like this, Sam hardly recognizes him. 

 

“Okay, folks, here we are.” The waitress says cheerily, interrupting their heated discussion, dishing out hot plates onto the table. She saves an extra warm smile for Meredith, and even winks at her. 

 

Sam glances at Meredith to watch her reaction--does she know this lady from somewhere?--but Meredith only narrows her eyes and stares the women down with vigorous distrust.

 

Dean is also watching the tense exchange with a coiled posture, always ready for a fight. 

 

“Christo,” He says deliberately, voice thoughtful, and the waitress only chuckles, like she knows exactly who he is and what he’s trying. 

 

Sam digs his fingernails into Dean’s forearm and tenses. 

 

“Oh, no. You’ve got that one wrong, darlin’. I ain’t from downstairs.” She drawls. “And I’m no angel either, before you ask. Although,” she takes a long pause and looks at Dean like she’s hungry. “I know I look angelic.” she leans around him and smirked crookedly at Sam, in a way that makes him feel very naked.

 

Dean squares his shoulders off to conceal his brother from the taunting eyes of the woman and Sam presses against him, grateful for his solid presence. 

 

“So what are you?” Megan cuts in. Dean can see her fingering with a knife in her sleeve, and he feels a rush of pride. This small army they’ve built up, tensed and armed, ready for a fight at the drop of a pin to defend the skinny limbed boy curled into Dean’s side.  

 

“An...audience member, if you will. I’m only here to watch. But don’t worry, you’re safe here. This place is warded against angels and demons. We get lots of riff raf in here, don’t get me wrong--but only the human kind.” 

 

Meredith nods to herself, staring off into this distance. “I knew I felt something. So, what is this place? Some sort of hunter meetup?”

 

The waitress shrugs. “Not officially. Used to be, maybe, but when the current owner bought it out he had no idea that this place was warded. Pretty sure he does now, though.” She grins dangerously, and Sam is mildly curious on the story behind that. It can’t be pretty--it never is.

 

“What are you.” Dean demands again, tilting his body to shield Sam slightly from the curious view of the waitress. She watches Sam more than anyone else and Dean is definitely noticing. 

 

“Call me Ava. I’m someone who can help.” She says thoughtfully. “Ya’ll are headed into the eye of the storm, and you sure as hell ain’t got nothing that’s sure to kill a demon or an angel.”

 

“You can’t kill a demon.” Megan says dumbly. 

 

The waitress shrugs and looks off into the distance. “You ain’t very well informed then, Miss.”

 

Dean hesitates, and then pinches the bridge of his nose. They really did need all the info they could get. “Alright. I’ll take the bait. What are you talking about?”

 

“I’ve got quite the arsenal of weapons, after dealing with some angels and demons in my time.” Her voice was like dripping honey, slow and smooth, roughed up only with the twang of her accent. The waitress looked relatively young, maybe Megan’s age, but if she was something supernatural, which was almost guaranteed, there is no telling how many centuries she’s walked this earth. She could be playing them.

 

Dean wouldn’t let his guard down. 

 

“Why would you want to help us?” Dean snarls. “What do you want from us in return?.”

 

“Nothing.” She says shortly. “I’ve got my own beef with both the above and the below,” She takes a second to sigh. “And I don’t want to see either of them win. ‘Sides, if the battle gets bad enough, we could  _ all  _ be wiped out. EVerything supernatural or otherwise. I don’t want to get my hands dirty, but I might as well help out the underdogs. Just my luck that you came in here, Dean Winchester. Or maybe,” she smiles sweetly. “The luck is yours.”  

 

Dean doesn’t know if he buys it. She is right--this fight could end in...well, armageddon. 

 

“We don’t need you, and I suggest you forget we were here and walk away.” Megan says tightly. 

 

Ava watches Megan evenly, and then a slow smile spreads across her face, and she holds her hands up. “Alright,” She murmurs amusedly, backing off. “Your choice. Enjoy the last supper, saint Red.” 

 

Dean gives Megan a look. Sam can tell he isn’t a fan of Megan trying to speak for the group--Dean is a leader, and Sam knows he doesn’t like his authority being overridden. 

 

“Wait.” Dean says.  Ava turns, looking like she expected no less. “If..we were to agree, what would you want from us?”  He demands again.

 

“To win.” Ava replies simply, stepping a little closer so their conversation can remain private. When Dean doesn’t look convinced, she drops the smooth lilt to her voice. “I think ya’ll have got a chance, alright? But only if you don’t gotta say the hail mary exorcism every time you come across a demon. It ain’t the most effective method if you’ve got Samuel over here who can’t talk.” 

 

Sam get chills that she knows his name. He’s become somewhat of a celebrity in the hunting community and he can’t say he’s loving the attention. 

 

Dean opens his mouth, probably to object to Ava even addressing Sam, but before he can jump in she’s continuing. “5 knifes, 7 angel blades. They're all yours.” 

 

“How do we know they work? You could be setting us up.” 

 

“Considering there ain’t gonna be an angel or a demon within 2 miles of this building, I don’t really think i can give you a demonstration.” Ava said, eyes flat. “You’re just gonna have to trust me.”

 

Dean laughs at that. “Yeah, right. Good one.” 

 

Sam squeezes a hand around Dean’s bicep and catches his brothers eyes, to nod once, at the same time Meredith says, “She’s telling the truth.”

 

Dean looks from Sam to Meredith, to Megan, who looks just as suspicious as him, and then back to Ava. “So, you want nothing in return.” Dean clarifies. Ava nods, clearly getting frustrated with the exchange. “Well, pick something. I don’t like to owe anybody any favors.”

 

Ava stares at Sam, and smiles. “Well,” She murmurs, frowning. “There is one thing.”

 

Dean watches Ava with a guarded expression. “What.”

 

Ava looks deliberately between Sam and Dean, and then to Megan and Meredith. There is laughter in her eyes that makes Sam uneasy. Meredith, seeming to sense the tension, shifts uncomfortable, and wrings her hands together on top of the table. 

 

“I want you to kiss Sam. On the mouth. A  _ real  _ kiss, like you mean it.”

 

There is a collective breath of silence, as that request is taken in by the group. Sam and Dean. Brothers. Kissing.

 

And Dean has always known that there was nothing normal about their relationship--he wasn’t an idiot. Brother’s maybe weren’t  _ supposed  _ to feel that way about each other. But Sam and Dean...they weren’t normal brothers. Not by a long shot. And what they do--it’s never felt anything but  _ right.  _ Never felt anything except like exactly what they both needed, both wanted.

 

Dean is the first to react.  _ “What?”  _  He nearly roars. “Are you...no! Sam is--he’s! You can’t!”

 

Ava watches Dean’s sputtering with amusement, like this is exactly the reaction she expected from him. She shrugs her shoulders. “Then no weapons, I guess. Sucks for you.”

 

“You were perfectly happy with getting nothing in return not 2 minutes ago!” Megan snarled. She, apparently, didn’t like the idea of Ava near Sam anymore than Dean did, although her rage was not quite comparable to the white hot fury of the eldest Winchester. No one said anything about the fact that Sam and Dean were brothers.

 

Dean didn’t fail to notice how Meredith didn’t look appalled by the idea. Megan….looked shocked, sure, but not disgusted.

 

They couldn’t... _ know... _ could they? Dean had been so careful, always keeping Sam out of the spotlight, trying to keep what they did hidden so that no one could point fingers and make his baby brother feel like he was doing something bad.

 

And Ava? Why would she ask for such a thing, unless she  _ knew.  _ Unless she somehow knew or could sense, and wanted to see the little army they’d built for themselves crumble around them. 

 

“I’ve changed my mind.” Ava replies. “Look, I’ve got other tables to serve. Eat up, folks, it’s gonna get cold. Just.  Think on it. I’ll be back to get the final verdict.” With a grin, she waltzes off. 

 

The silence sits heavy between the four of them. Meredith starts on her fries and burger, oblivious to the obvious discomfort of the others.

 

Dean stares down at his own plate, stomach turning. They would know. Meredith and Megan would know that he and Sam were together the second they kissed. And then what? What if they hated them both? What if the left and then who else was going to help him protect his kid? Who else, if his small army disowned him? If they turned their backs and called them wrong? 

 

Sam is very still beside him, his jaw wound tight, muscle working furiously. His slender hands have retreated from Dean and the clench together, knuckles white.

 

“Sam,” Dean murmurs, voice low. “Hey. S’gonna be fine.” Could be a lie, but it might not be. 

 

Sam shakes his head. His hands are trembling. His eyes are wide and cloudy with panic. 

 

“Sam--” Megan tries, but stops short at the tight way Sam curls away from her, pressing his back further into the vinyl of the booth, as if he could disappear from them. 

 

“Hey.” Megan says again, and reaches out to grab Sam’s shoulder in an effort to redirect his attention. However, as soon as her fingers make contact, she jumps back, retract her hand with a yelp of surprise.

 

Sam looked equally as disturbed, eyes wide and scared, body tense like he was about to flee. 

 

“He--” Megan swallows. “He burnt me.” 

 

Sam’s terror only grows, and all at once his mouth starts moving, forming silent words so quickly even Dean has trouble understanding, and his entire life revolves around those lips, he’s spent all his days learning the way the curl around words, the way they curl around  _ him. _ He recognizes one thing, over and over again.  _ Sorry. Didn’t mean to. I hurt you. Hurt you.  _

 

Dean knows Sam, and he knows when Sam is on the edge of a panic attack. This was one of those times. He grabbed Sam’s hand without hesitation, confident in the fact that Sam wouldn’t hurt him. 

 

His skin was  _ hot  _ to the touch, felt like touching an open flame, and everything in Dean screamed to let go, because yeah, it  _ hurt.  _ Sam realized what he was doing by the pained expression on Dean’s face, and tried to struggle away from Dean’s hold, but his brother only gripped tighter, gritting his teeth.

 

“Dean, what are you--” Megan demanded, looking conflicted. Meredith was watching intensely. 

 

“Sam.” Dean barked. “Focus, kiddo. C’mon. You can control it. Stop hurting me.”

 

_ Can’t,  _ Sam mouthed miserably,  _ I don’t know how. Let go! Dean. Dean. Dean.  _ Sam is sobbing, gasping for air. Dean’s hand is throbbing, aching, burning. He holds tighter.  _ I’m sorry. I can’t stop it. I can’t. De, please. No. _

 

“Concentrate.” Dean says smoothly as he is able with the pain, grinding his teeth. “C’mon, kitten. For me. Focus. You can do this.” 

 

Sam is hyperventilating, but he manages to get his breathing under control, watching Dean’s chest, just like they’ve always done. Just like they’ve practiced, whenever the panic gets too much for Sam. 

 

But this, this has never happened before and he’s hurting the one person he loves the most and Dean isn’t giving up on him. 

 

Why hasn’t he given up on him?

 

“That’s it. Good job, Sammy. Doing so well. Now, concentrate for me, alright? Just...calm down. You have to calm down.” 

 

_ Hurting you. _

 

“I’m okay,” Dean lied. “You need to calm down. M’right here, not going anywhere. We’re going to get the weapons and get out of here. We’re gonna figure this whole thing out. You’ve just gotta calm down for me. Breathe, Sammy. That’s it.” 

 

Sam swallowed, and slowly, second by second, his skin becomes cooler and cooler. 

 

It’s still feverish, way hotter than should be possible on a human, but the pain is gone. Dean lets out a long breath of relief, and pulls Sam into his arms. Dean’s hand is free of any burns or blisters. 

 

It makes him wonder. Was Sam’s skin  _ actually  _ hot, or was it something with Sam messing with their brains, making them react as if it were actually burning them, despite that not being the case? What had caused this reaction? Was it the same as Sam glowing? What this just another sign that his kid was something more special, just another sign of why Dean has to fight even harder?

 

He cups the back of Sam’s head and holds him close. “You did it. You did it, Sammy. You’re in control. You controlled it.” 

 

Sam clings tighter, shaking fingers coming up to trace quick words on Dean’s chest.  _ Thank you.  _

 

Sam looks down at Dean’s hand, lying between them, and then at his big brother, the stubborn idiot who refuses to let Sam believe that he is bad, who is hurting himself just to prove to Sam that Sam is in control.

 

And christ, he’s in love. 

 

Dean shoots a glance at Megan, who is staring pointedly at the table, like she’s trying not to make them uncomfortable. Meredith, though, is watching them both happily, a small, pleased smile on her full lips. 

 

Meredith tilts her head thoughtfully. “Eat up. We’ll all need whatever strength we can get.” She declares finally, and continues to dig in. Not another word is said.

 

Even Sam finishes his dinner.  

 

_

 

When their plates are scraped clean, Ava returns to collect them, that small, pleased smile on her face. Dean assumes she witnessed Sam’s little episode. He doesn’t know what he thinks of that, but he ‘s pretty sure he hates her. 

 

“So, boys,” She drawls, gathering the plates up in her arms. “Have we reached a decision?”

 

Truthfully, they hadn’t discussed it all. They’d all pretended the offer had never been made, they had all eaten their dinners and not spoken a word. 

 

Sam grabs Dean’s chin and kisses him, feather light and quick on the mouth, before drawing back, eyes hard and determined. Then, he holds out his hand, open, palm up.  _ Weapons, now. Please. _

 

Ava throws back her head and laughs. “I’m going to return these plates to the kitchen, and when I get back, I want to see a  _ real  _ kiss. I think you two can do better than that, don’t ya think?” Ava winks, watching Dean with a knowing expression. 

 

She dances off, and Sam slams his hand down on the table in frustration. 

 

“Sam,” Dean says sharply, a ring of authority in his voice. “Hey. Calm down. It’s fine. One kiss, in exchange for enough weapons for each of us to be fully equipped and better prepared for this?” 

 

But it wasn’t just one kiss. Christ, Dean would do a lot more for a lot less. He’d kissed Sam a thousand times--it was one of his favorite things to do. But in front of Megan and Meredith, who would  _ know  _ that it wasn’t their first time kissing...that was a different story. They couldn’t afford to lose their alliance. 

 

“It’s worth it,” Meredith supplied helpfully. Something in her voice made Dean frown. It sounded as if she was only humoring them. As if she knew something she wouldn’t let on. 

 

_ But we’re careful,  _ Dean tells himself.  _ We’ve always been careful around other people.  _

 

Still. Meredith did  _ know  _ things, sometimes. She knew things like Sam sometimes knew them, and maybe it wouldn’t really be that big of a surprise if she knew, if she suspected something between them.

 

And yet, she stuck around. 

 

“But only if you want to,” Megan adds. Her voice is gentle, understanding. There is no undertone of judgement, there is no hint of insincerity anywhere. 

 

They...accept it?

 

Sam turns to Dean, and nods once.

 

It’s decided, then.

__

 

When Ava returns, Dean presses the most gentle, welcoming kiss to his little brothers lips, and Sam responds in kind, always so pliant for him, so willing to let Dean lead and return each peck with a press of his own. 

 

When they pull apart, Sam is flushed and content. Relaxed, even, despite the fact that he just kissed his brother in front of three people, two of which he needed to accept him literally, for his survival. 

 

“Well,” Ava exclaimed. “I think that explains a lot, don’t you? I mean, I always thought the rumors were..just rumors. But maybe not, hmm?” Ava giggles, and claps her hands together. “Dinner is on the house. Let’s go get those weapons, shall we, love birds?”

 

And just like that, it’s over. With a delighted giggle and a flick of her hair, Ava has potentially disrupted everything Sam Winchester has going for him in this fight. Their little army could dissolve, could be disgusted.

 

Dean swallows back a biting comment, and squeezes Sam’s thigh under the table. His own heart is racing both from kissing Sam and from fear, but he tries to put out a calm and controlled aura. A glance at Sam shows only a stony, stoic expression. 

 

It makes Dean clench his jaw. On Sam’s face, usually so expressive and alive, it’s a cold, cut off reality. This war is turning Sam into a solider. Perhaps it already has.

 

No one speaks as they follow Ava out to the parking lot, where she stops at a bright red mini cooper. Not the most inconspicuous or useful of cars, but it certainly seemed to hold a place in her heart from the way she opens the trunk with care and stares lovingly at the upholstery. 

 

Dean keeps Sam behind him immediately as he spots the flash of a blade, but Ava only smiles brighter and scoops up the large blade carefully. “Angel blade.” She says. “It works.”

 

“I’ll believe it when I see it.” Dean grumbles, but takes the weapons anyway, despite his mistrust. “Give me all you’ve got.” 

 

Ava does. 

 

The next thing she pulls out is much smaller-- a knife, engraved with symbols Dean is sure he’d seen somewhere. “Let me guess. Demon knife?” 

 

Ava curtsies. “Naturally.”

 

Sam, watching this exchange with carefully kept mistrust, tugs on Dean’s sleeve and his brother turns to face him.  _ It will kill the person inside. The demon, and the human.  _

_ _

Dean knew this, of course. The knife would kill the demon, maybe, but a fatal stab would likely kill the human too. 

 

Dean doesn’t say anything, but he wraps an arm around Sam’s waist and tugs him close. He can feel his boy shaking and wishes there was more he could give, some part of himself he could hand to Sam to make this all better. 

 

He knew this fight would end bloody. He’d expected nothing else. People are going to die. 

 

Everyone is expendable.

 

Sam’s eyes look especially golden-brown in the setting sunlight. 

 

Well. Almost everyone. 

 

“We can’t save the all.” Megan says finally, when the silence gets too long. “People are going to die, Sam. There isn’t much we can do about it.” 

 

Sam goes rigid at that, and glares furiously at the ground. 

 

Dean watches him knowingly. He, of course, knows his kid too well. Sam wants this to end at himself. The thought of other lives being lost because of him is going to eat him up. Dean can see it tearing away at him. 

 

“Is that everything?” Dean asks, turning back to Ava. 

 

“There is one more thing.”  And yeah, Dean isn’t a fan of how she says that. 

 

“What.” He demands, tightening his grip on Sam instinctively.  “Sunlight is wasting.” 

 

Her lips pull up to expose her teeth in a way that can’t exactly be classified as a smile. “You already have one weapon, Dean, that you just don’t know how to use. But it might be the most powerful one of all.”

 

Dean tightens his jaw. “I’m not in the mood for riddles.” He tugs Sam and tries to turn away, but Megan’s curiosity wins over and she puts a hand on Dean’s chest to stop his retreat. 

 

“What is it?” Megan  asks Ava, voice tight. There is a desperation in her voice that lets Dean know Megan doesn’t think they’re going to make it out of this alive, that she wants every chance they can get.

 

Meredith only offers a put upon sigh, but stays where she is and watches Ava with wise eyes. Always two steps ahead, always waiting for everyone else to catch up. 

 

Ava tilts her head. “You know.” She’s speaking to Meredith. It’s not a question.

 

Meredith nods once. “I’m sure many do. There is a reason for all of this, after all.”

 

Ava hums knowingly. “Right you are.”

 

“Like I said,” Dean snaps, glaring this time at Meredith. If she knew something, why wouldn’t she have spoken up about it? “We’re burning daylight. We’ve got places to go, world-ending-wars to fight.”

 

Ava stalks closer, and Dean tries to tug Sam behind his body, tries to take up a fighting stance, but Sam struggles away, refusing to be protected. Ava watches the exchange with amusement, and jams her finger into Sam’s chest, a smirk in her eyes.

 

“You, little Samuel, are the most powerful weapon your little army has got.” Ava murmurs. “You’ve got all that angel blood just circling through those veins of yours, and it’s got powers you don’t even know exist. So I suggest you use them, Sammy, because if you don’t, you’re going to  _ lose,  _ and then you’re going to watch everyone around die. And it’ll be all. Your. Fault.”

 

“Hey!” Dean says sharply, pulling Ava back roughly by the shoulders. “You don’t get to speak to him like that.” But the damage was done. Dean could see the resolve, the fear, the loathing that had already set up home in Sam’s eyes. They suddenly appeared to be a much darker shade of golden. They’d lost the light that had once illuminated them so completely.

 

Ava is quick and small, and she darts out of Dean’s grasp to whisper something into Sam’s ear, something that Dean can’t make out, but it makes Sam’s eyes get impossibly darker and full of fear.

 

“Enough!” Dean shouts, voice full of authority and demand, so much so that Ava does freeze for a second, before regaining her composure. 

 

“Leaving so soon?” She bats her eyelashes and gives a sweet, innocent smile. 

 

Dean doesn’t return it. “Thanks.” He says sharply. “But just know, that if these weapons don’t work the way you promised…” He paused to bare his teeth, menace in his eyes. “I’ll find you. That’s a promise, sweetheart.”

 

“Whatever you say, Winchester.” she gives a little wiggle of her fingers in lieu of a wave, and returns to the diner, readjusting her apron as she does so.

 

-

 

With the newly acquired gear safely tucked away into the impala, with Meredith and Megan given their own supply, they return to the road. Sam promised they weren’t far, but night was falling quickly and he knew they were all exhausted. 

 

Still, he kept driving. Time was something they could no longer afford. 

 

Sam reaches over and shyly pries one of Dean’s hands off the steering wheel, lacing their fingers together and settling their intertwined hands on his own lap. 

 

Dean’s heart squeezes at the gesture, and he draws soothing circles on the back of Sam’s hand with his thumb. The two of them, against the world. 

 

“Sammy,” Dean murmured softly, keeping his eyes straight ahead. “What did she say to you? When she whispered to you?” 

 

Sam shrugs, and looks down at his lap, looking at their intertwined fingers like the hold the meaning to all of this mess. Sam’s fingers trace letters across the back of Dean’s hand.  _ Nothing. _

 

“Don’t lie to me.” 

 

Sam flinches like that stung him.  _ I don’t wanna talk about it. _

 

“Tell me, please.” 

 

_ That I can do things with my mind. Dangerous things.  _

 

Dean pauses. Yeah, he’d seen Sam accidentally smite at least 10 angels in that diner bathroom while they were on the run. He’d seen his little brother  _ literally glow,  _ and break out of the panic room at Bobby’s, and burn those who touched him--including Dean. Sam was...powerful. 

 

“Anything else?” He knew there had to be something else.

 

_ She said it’s in the prophecies that you die in battle for me.  _

 

Dean doesn’t say anything for a long, long time. This is the way it was always meant to be between them. Sam living magnificently, a brilliant gift in this revolting world full of things that go bump in the night, and Dean keeping him safe and loved and not letting anything bad taint the sunshine that was his kid. Their system had always worked so well. 

 

“Sam--” Dean tries, but Sam is shaking his head, and when Dean glances over at him, he sees that Sam’s eyes are red and angry, like he’s crying but has no tears to give. Like he’s so sad, but so drained, and Dean hates the world and heaven and hell and  _ Ava  _ so goddamn much.

 

_ There’s more.  _ Sam traces shakily. Dean waits, tries to calm the anger he feels towards everything that has left Sam this defeated. 

 

Sam closes his eyes, and for several minutes, breathes very slow and deep. Dean holds his hand tightly, fearing Sam is trying to calm himself down before he has an impending panic attack. Instead, Sam’s chapped lips part and he mumbles out, voice thick and uneven, 

 

“Not just that you die for me. It says--” Sam chokes and tries to hold back a sob, his hand gripping Dean’s with white knuckles. Dean waits, doesn’t push him, but lingers on the sound of Sam’s voice--so rare, so sad.

  
“I-I’m the one who k-kills y-you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would love for you to come say hi at tumblr! my tumblr is wincestplease and my inbox is always open so come talk to me! :) What are we thinking so far? John is dead! Sam wants to surrender! Do you think Megan and Meredith know about the boys? What's gonna happen in the final showdown? I WOULD LOVE TO HEAR YOUR THOUGHTS! THEY GIVE ME LIFE!!


	30. My Idea of Heaven is Your Hand to Hold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Live for this,” Sam says finally, his voice small but unwavering. Dean is so fucking proud of how far they’ve come, of how much Sam has accomplished. “For the quiet moments.” Sam whispers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! It's been SO long since I last uploaded, and I'm so sorry. This fic is a monster, but we've got just hopefully one more chapter to go!!  
> Thank you guys as always for your continued support. I don't deserve it <3

All his life, Dean Winchester’s soul purpose came bundled with inch deep dimples and hazel eyes. His purpose was to be whatever Sam needed, whenever he needed it.  
His purpose, his mission, his meaning; all of it, he found in the gangly boy sitting in his passenger seat. He’s never needed more than that.

His boy’s words hung heavy in the air, the ring of his sweet voice still floating between them. 

“You...kill me.” Dean isn’t asking a question. He’s repeating the statement. Confirming the information. Processing it. 

Sam kills him.  
Huh.

Sam presses his lips together and doesn’t say anything more. His eyes look watery and full of horror, as if saying it outloud made it more real, somehow. Dean can practically hear the corners of Sam’s mind working a million miles a minute.

“Sammy,” Dean says, because this is job, dammit, “Just because some old, dusty whatever-the-fuck poem says something, it doesn’t mean that’s how it’s going to go down.” Reassure Sam. Comfort him. Don’t let anyone hurt Sam, Dean. He’s your responsibility. He’s yours. 

Why didn’t Meredith say anything? Sam mouths, his voice clearly no longer at his command. She knows those prophecies better than anyone. She could have warned us. She could’ve--

“Ava was--well, we don’t know what she was. She could have been lying, kid. Trying to get in our heads right before we head into this mess.” Dean says calmly. Calm was about the farthest thing from how he truly felt, but he wasn’t about to let Sam see that.

They had miles to go, and they had to be strong. Dean had to be strong.

I don’t know, Dean. Something about it….felt true. What if she wasn’t lying? Sam is watching Dean carefully, and Dean knows that look well. Sam is scared--terrified, really, and he’s measuring Dean’s reaction. It’s a habit Sam picked up a long time ago, Dean recalls. Sam would fall down, his knee scraped and bleeding, and if Dean only stayed calm, then Sam wouldn’t panic too much, feeding off of Dean’s emotions.

Right now, Dean was trying. But the panic was getting to him, and the caged feeling that had been threatening for days was building, and Sam’s eyes were so wide and helpless and Dean hated that look. Hated that Sam was so scared, and that Dean couldn’t make it better.

“Sam.” Dean says, a little harshly. “If you don’t want to kill me, then don’t.” 

Sam opens his mouth to argue, but Dean cuts him off.

“It’s that simple. You are the only one who goddamn decides what you do, okay? Don’t let some stupid wannabe demon like Ava get in your head and control you. I don’t know for a fact, but I’m pretty damn sure you’re the most powerful thing on this planet right now. And that’s gotta mean something, right? It’s gotta mean we got some goddamn chance against Heaven and Hell, and... it’s gotta mean we got some kind of choice as to what happens to us.” Dean finishes, hands gripping the steering wheel.

Sam blinks, and Dean can feel his presence getting stronger, somehow. More sure of himself. I don’t want to hurt you. Sam pauses. Or anyone.

“So don’t. Except for the Angels. And the Demons. Hurt them all you like. In fact, I encourage it. I’ll even help.” 

There is a long silence. 

People are going to die. Because of me. Sam is resigned now, sitting stiffly, staring at his own hands. No matter what I do. They are.

“Maybe,” Dean agrees. “But not if I can help it.” He squeezes Sam’s hand. “We’re in this together, kid.”

Turn right. 

Dean does. They don’t say anything else for a short while, until Sam tugs on Dean’s sleeve to get his attention, finally. 

You aren’t fooling me, you know. 

Dean’s eyes dart between Sam and the road. “What do you mean?”  
You...You aren’t planning on making it out of this alive. The way Sam mouthed it was phony, like he was posturing. Putting on a tough act to hide how much he hoped he was wrong. How much he hoped Dean would tell him he was wrong and mean it.

And so here they were. One small catastrophe avoided, and waltzing right into another. Sam had no shortage of observation skills, and he’d had his entire life to perfect the skill of decoding Dean.

Just because Dean could speak, didn’t mean he always used his words.  
Sam had to learn to understand the silence, too. 

Dean looks out at the empty road and wishes they could drive forever, that Baby would never run out of gas and the pavement would never end or lead somewhere horrible.  
Dean.

“I’m going to try,” Dean argues gently. This isn’t something he wants to push hard on, doesn’t want it to hurt any worse when Sam is right. He needs to tread lightly. Sam can see right through him, he knows. There was a right way to approach this.  
“It’s not like I’ve got some kind of death wish, Sam. But we need to be realistic. We’re dealing with two supernatural armies here, kitten. That ain’t no walk in the park.”

You’re willing to die for me. It’s not a question. Sam knows this.

“‘Course I am.” Dean said, without hesitation, eyes hard on the road, white knuckles on his steering wheel. “Was before all of this. You would do the same for me, Sam. S’what we do.”  
Loving Sam was always was Dean had done best, always what he excelled at.  
No matter how straight he could shoot, how hard he could hit or fight or hunt. Loving his kid, keeping him safe...that is what Dean is best at. 

Sam’s eyebrows draw together, as if he can’t quite comprehend what to do with this information, though Dean is pretty sure it isn’t news to Sam. 

“We almost there?” Dean asks, desperate for a change in subject. 

Sam nods. 

Almost. 

_______________________

Megan and Meredith trail behind the impala, the windows up, the radio off. The only sound is their breaths, their heartbeats, and loudest of all, their fear. It seems deafening. 

“Meredith?” Megan finally broke the silence, just a few minutes after they’d pulled away from the diner. The impala speeds along before them, carrying a broken boy and his broken boy down the lonely highway, towards imminent chaos. 

“Yes?” Meredith replied in her calm, melodic voice. When Megan doesn’t answer, Meredith prompts her. “Something is weighing on you, dear. Might as well get it off your chest now.” Although it went unsaid, the words it might be your last chance to do so hung in the air as heavy as if they’d been voiced.

Megan chews her bottom lip and lets the silence hang for a while longer, brows knit tightly together. 

“Sam and Dean. It’s just. Just now, at the diner. With the. They’ve always...I mean. Are they--”

Meredith interrupts, before Megan can go on. “What they are, or what they are not, it’s not important now, love.” She says gently, as though she were speaking to an oblivious child. Maybe, Megan thinks, that comparison wasn’t too far off. “All that matters is that they are the most important person to each other. In this case, it will only benefit Sam’s chances of making out of ordeal alive.”

Megan wets her lips. “How long have they...been like that?”

Meredith arches a brow. “As long as there has been dust on the earth. Long before their creation. Long after they pass.” She tilts her head at Megan. “You’re confused?” 

“I…” She wasn’t really. The shock wasn’t there. It wasn’t a complete surprise. “But they’re brothers.” 

“How else could the universe ensure that two people with such a lifestyle end up together otherwise? Sam, with his angel blood, didn’t need someone like Dean. Only Dean specifically could fill the role. They had to be together, from birth. There was no other way. Their bond...goes beyond the blood in their veins.” Meredith explains slowly. She’s not sure there is any other way to put it.

Megan presses her lips together.

Meredith pauses thoughtfully, looking out the window at the flat countryside. “It is impossible to know when two souls first embrace, but they’ve been bound together for centuries. Before the mountains were ever mountains.” 

“So...they’re soulmates?” Megan asks, voice soft. 

“In the truest sense of the word.” Meredith agrees serenely.

Megan has known this, deep down. Knew it wasn’t normal, the way Dean had held Sam on that motel bed while Sam was in a coma. Knew that it wasn’t normal the angry, fiercely protective way Dean had tugged Sam away after Kyle almost kissed him. Knew that each and every time they looked at each other, there was always the background heartbeat of more. Of something else. 

It didn’t take a scholar to see that the way the boys loved each other was something like a religion. 

“Did….does their father know? Or Bobby Singer?” Megan murmurs. 

Meredith stares at the redhead. “We’ve got bigger things to worry about.” She says, a ring of authority in her voice. “Everything is going to messy very, very shortly. Our minds need to be on that.”

Megan tightens her grip on the steering wheel and follows the Impala when it takes a sharp right. 

“How is this going to end?” Megan asks. “Will it be okay?” 

Meredith seems very sad for some reason. “I wish I could see that. But there are too many choices to be made. It’s unclear.” 

“Do you think we’ll all be alright?” Megan is desperate for some reassurance. That much is obvious. 

“Not all of us,” Meredith says softly. Megan lets that sit for a while. 

“Does.” She swallows. “Is Dean going to die?” 

Meredith stares out the window. “I don’t know that, either. The prophecies...there’s some variation in how it all ends. Chaos is a common factor, but.” Meredith sighs. “Each side has their own story of victory. Impossible to say which will prevail.” 

“And in some of them, Dean survives?” She needs a happy ending for the boys. Needs them to be okay. But she has a sinking feeling. Soulmates.  
Dean won’t let Sam get hurt.  
He’d die before he let that happen. 

Megan just really, really hoped that it didn’t come down to that. 

“No sense in worrying about the unknown.” Meredith says firmly. “You just need to fight as hard as you are able.” 

“You mean us. All of us,” Megan corrects, feeling uneasy. 

Meredith smiles uncomfortably. “Yes. Of course, my bad.” 

“I think we can do this.” She isn’t sure if she’s convincing herself or if she really believes it, but she knows that she hopes. 

“We’re nearly there.” Meredith murmurs, mostly to herself. She wrinkled her nose, face scrunching up suddenly. “Oh, no. Poor Samuel. Poor, sweet boy.” 

Megan freezes. She tries to peer at the two figures in the Impala but the glass is too dusty and tinted to see properly. “What is it? Is Sam--”

“He’ll be alright. But if I can feel it from here, Sam must be choking on it.” She shakes her head sadly. “Poor boy.”

“On what?” Megan demands, getting anxious, eyes darting around, looking for any sign of danger. But Meredith didn’t seem scared, just sad. The impala continued to cruise on before them, like nothing had changed. “What’s going on?” 

“Smells like the…. rot of death.” Meredith whispers, almost absently, shaking her head. “Of demons and death and…” Her voice goes so quiet Megan isn’t even entirely sure she hears it when Meredith breathes, “terrible, awful things.” 

Megan is sure they’ll see quite a lot of that in the next few hours.

___

Sam is having a panic attack. 

At least, that’s the only way Dean would know how to describe it. One minute, they are sitting in calm silence, together, and breathing. The next, Sam is choking and sputtering, coughing and clawing at the interior of the car like it’s responsible for this fear. Like he’s trying to escape. 

“Hey!” Dean shouts, darting his eyes between the road and his kid, reaching for Sam’s chest, fingers splaying wide on it. “Hey, Sam! Whoa, whoa, What’s going on?” Nothing. The panic continues as if Dean hadn’t spoken. “Sam!” Dean says, loud and sharp. “Hey! Look at me!”

Sam’s hazel eyes meet his, wild and filling with tears. His lips tremble when he mouths: we’re too late.

Dean freezes, not understanding. He keeps his hand right where it is. “What?” 

Dean, we’re too late. 

“San, what do you mean?” He demands. “Too late for what?” 

Dad….he. Sam’s eyes are wet, his cheeks are covered in tears. He’s...he’s. 

“Sam, what? What is it?” Dean demands, voice sharp. A part of him, though, it already knows. Can sense what Sam is about to tell him.

Sam tries to find his voice, but he’s too frazzled, too scared. Dad’s gone, Sam sobs, burying his face in his hands and clawing at his hair. He’s dead. Oh God. Oh God, we were too late.

Dean feels that icy cold panic clench around his heart, that bone chilling ache of no, no, please, that can’t be right, not Dad, nothing can hurt dad. “How...how do you know?” Because there has to be an explanation--there has to be a loophole in the story, in John’s mortality. Something that will let Dean sigh in relief. Will let Dean see his father again. 

Dean is very still. Not moving. Just driving. 

Sam curls his legs up on the seat of the impala and wraps his arms around them, as if he were trying to comfort himself, or disappear into the leather seats. I just do. I can. Sense it. He breathes, trying to calm himself, gaze unfocused and glassy. It smells of….rot. Of death. It was days ago, Dean. Days and days. 

Dean, stupidly, sniffs the air, but all he can smell is Sam and the Impala and it smells so falsely safe that it makes him press the gas harder, as if he could drive away from it all, to a new reality where John is waiting for them, and doesn’t reek of decomposed body. 

“We don’t...know that for sure.” Dean says numbly. His dad? Dead? The small part of Dean that still thought irrationally that his father was safe from anything and everything argued that John would be okay, that he always was.

But a larger part of Dean, the logical part, knew the odds. Knew the facts.

It had been months since John had contacted Dean directly, and John being held captive was the theory they’d stuck with when Bobby had gone looking for his father. If whoever had his father wanted information about Sam, Dean knew John wouldn’t budge. Although John and Sam didn’t get along as famously as Sam and Dean, Dean knew that their father would die for his youngest son in a heartbeat. 

Would die trying to keep him safe.  
Had.

Dean forgets, for a long, fleeting second, how to breathe. His chest gets so tight and so heavy that he has to claw for air, fight to make his lungs obey. From beside him, he can see Sam just barely keeping it together, eyes wide and tears flowing freely. 

He keeps driving. He’s got to keep driving. Stay calm. Stay in control. 

He could hear his father’s voice now, as clear as ever. 

Proud of you, Dean. 

You’re a good shot, kid. Gonna be better than me someday, if ya keep at it.

Look out for your little brother. Gotta keep him safe. Protect him.

Shoulders back, Dean. No tears. No time for bein’ weak now, alright? S’just a scrape, that’s all. Nothing a band aid can’t fix. See? All better. That’s my boy. Gotta stay strong.

Yeah, Dean. You’re right; Sammy is real special. S’why you gotta watch him real close.

Saving people. Hunting things. The family business.

You’re one hell of a big brother. Sammy’s a lucky kid.

You got it, Dean. You killed it. Your first kill. You saved those people. How does it feel?

Don’t let anyone hurt Sam. 

Protect him, son. He’s your responsibility. 

Strange that, as much as Dean tries to recall it all in this moment, this one, single moment of aching, he can’t remember his father’s voice saying “goodbye”. 

There are fingers tapping at his thigh. Sam’s. 

John had been dead for days. 

Days.

Weeks, maybe. 

Tapping on his thighs. 

Maybe they tortured him for hours, made him scream. Made him beg for death. 

The tapping gets faster. 

Dean never got to say goodbye.

Sam’s fingers push harder, become more aggressive, as though he is trying to get Dean’s attention. Pull him back from the edge, maybe. Sam was good at that.  
It works to ground Dean, stops him from floating away in his own misery, forcing him to snap back to reality.

“Dad is dead.” Dean blurted, as if he had to say the words to make it sink in for real. “Dad’s dead.” 

My fault, Sam swallowed, his eyes taking on a weight to them Dean immediately wished was gone. God, all of this is my fault. I’m so sorry, Dean. 

“His own damn fault,” Dean says finally, no emotion in his voice, knowing that his words were true. John wouldn’t have died on anyways fault but his own; Dean is sure. 

We’re alone. Sam mouths, beginning to shake. For real, now, Dean. We...we don’t have anyone. Our father is dead, he’s dead and he probably died thinking I hate him. Sam was trembling visibly now, his hands running nervously through his hair, lips working a million miles a minute and mind working even faster. I never hated him, Dean, and now he’s dead and he’ll never know, and...and all this time, everything he did, everything he said or tried to hide about me being mute. It was to protect me. From this.

I’m going to be alone, Sam is trembling violently, his slender frame caving in on itself. You’re going to die for me and I’m going to have no one and I can’t be alone. I can’t. 

And God, those words make Sam seem so fucking young and so scared and it triggers something firey in Dean, something that makes him want to grab a gun and start shooting at anyone who so much as looked at his kid in the wrong way. 

“Sam,” Dean grabs Sam’s hand, has to hold it hard because it’s shaking, and he presses it to his own chest, above his heartbeat, fingers splayed wide, the other hand still on the wheel, still driving them closer to danger. “Sammy,”

And before they can do anything, before Dean can begin to reassure Sam, to make promises he won’t be able to keep, something runs out in front of the impala, forcing Dean to slam the breaks, shoving them both forward.

Dean, breathing hard, looks around, fingers reaching for the shotgun in the glovebox. Behind him, he sees Megan and Meredith stop, too.  
“Stay in the car, Sam. I mean it.” Dean says sharply, and gets out, cocking the gun. Apparently, the battle was starting early. 

Megan slides out of the vehicle as well, and her eyes are wide, scared. “What the hell was that?” 

“Nothing good,” Dean said grimly, keeping a sharp gaze out. 

Dean hears the sound of wings flapping, and then of the impala door being wrenched open. As he wheels around, he sees a man wearing a neatly pressed tuxedo, bending in to talk to Sam. 

“Samuel, come with me,” The angel is encouraging. “Please. I can’t hurt you. I would never hurt you.”

Dean is shooting, running at the angel, knowing damn well that the angel blades are in the trunk, that there is no time, that Sam is screaming. 

“Sam, no!” Megan cries, and she’s darting forward, not hesitating. From her position, she is able to get there before Dean, and she grabs the angels arm, trying to pry him off of Sam. Meredith is close behind, scratching at the angel, pulling hard, using all her strength. 

The angel raises his brown eyes to look down at them like they were nothing more than cockroaches. He ignores her feeble struggles, and Dean’s bullets, and keeps tugging on Sam, who must be fighting tooth and nail to keep the angel prying at him for so long. 

“Come on Samuel,” The angel prompts. “Stop shrieking, I’m hardly hurting you. I just want you to come out here so we can talk.” 

Dean is close enough to bury a knife into the angels chest, and it thankful makes him stumble back a few feet, releasing Sam. 

Another sound of flapping wings, and another angel appears. Then two more. And then another two. 

Six angels, all charging at the impala. 

“Sam,” Dean yells. “Drive.” 

He starts launching himself at one of the angels, noticing Megan taking on her own, along with Meredith, but the angels were teaming up, and they were strong. 

Sam doesn’t drive. 

Instead, Dean hears the horrible sound of the impala door opening, of Sam getting out, of Sam opening the trunk and the metallic clinking of angel blades being dug out. 

Dean wouldn’t let this end badly for Sam. 

“Samuel,” An angel says, and the fighting stops.

Fuck, Dean curses. He’d gotten distracted with worrying about Sam, and he’d been compromised.  
The angel that Dean had been dealing with gets him in a tight hold, the angels chest against Dean’s back, Dean’s own knife held at his throat.  
The angel using him as leverage that it knew Sam couldn’t say no to. 

A glance to Dean’s left shows that the other angels were holding Megan and Meredith in similar fashions.

The angel blade that hangs in Sam’s grip won’t do him any good now. 

“Sam,” Dean warns, hoping his tone conveyed just how much it meant his words. “Don’t do anything stupid.” 

“Samuel,” the one holding Dean practically purrs. “Samuel, come with us, and no one gets hurt.”

“Let them go,” Sam demands. Dean is so damn proud of his kid for talking, for being brave. “If you hurt any one of them, I’ll never forgive you.”

“Of course. As soon as you agree to come with us.”

“Sam,” Meredith says calmly. “Sam, it’s okay. You know what you need to do. It’s alright. Everything is okay.”

Megan shoots Meredith a quizzical look. 

“No,” Sam is shaking his head. “No, I can’t leave you. I won’t.” 

More angels appear out of seemingly nowhere. By now, there must be at least 30, possibly more.  
They are all waiting for Sam to agree. They can’t take him by force, Dean realizes. They don’t dare to hurt him.  
The angel was only trying to get him out of the car. Perhaps it meant Sam had some kind of shot.

The angel presses the blade against Dean’s throat. “He is the first one to go.” 

“No!” Sam screams, and he takes a step forward. He’s rewarded for that action by the demon drawing a thin line of blood from Dean’s neck. It stings.

Sam is glowing. Dean remembers when this happened before, knowing that it means Sam is losing control.

“Hey. Sammy, its okay,” Dean murmurs. “I need you to get in the car. Okay? Get in the car, Sam. We’re going to be fine.”

“No,” Sam is crying. “No, I won’t.” 

“Sam. Get in the car, and drive away.” 

“I’m not going to leave.” Sam sobs, “Give him back! Let them go!” 

“We don’t have time for this,” The angel holding Meredith sighs. Meredith closes her eyes, and mouths, its okay, at Sam. 

It wraps its hands around Meredith’s delicate neck, and twists hard. 

The sound of bones snapping is one that Dean will not ever, ever forget. Her limp body hits the pavement with a soft so

Just like that. Meredith is dead. A brilliant, beautiful light, snuffed out without a wince. For how ethereal Meredith seemed sometimes, Dean knew she was only human. Could bleed and feel pain and die just as easily as the rest of them. 

Sam shrieks and tries to run to Meredith’s body, but as he tries to take a step closer, the angel holding Megan puts its hands in the same, calculated position on Megan’s head. 

No, Dean pleads silently. God, please. He didn’t want to watch another one of their friends die. Not after Megan had given so much for them. Been there for so long.

“Come with us.” The angel prompts, making it obvious what the next action would be if Sam didn’t comply. “Our blood runs through your veins.” 

“No,” Dean yells, sharply, seeing Sam’s resolve fade. “Sam, no!”

“Sam,” Megan whispers. “Sammy, its okay. It’s okay, it’s not your fault. I love you. I forgive you,” She’s crying, but only softly. “It’s not your fault.” 

And Dean loves her, for wanting those to be her last words--for her last efforts to be ridding Sam of guilty she knew would eat him up. 

“Don’t touch her!” Dean shouts. Megan had a husband who loved her, and Kyle, who needed someone, and Dean didn’t want this on Sam’s conscience. Knew that it would break him. 

“If we kill Dean, we might have a better chance,” The angel holding Dean reasons. Dean realizes where this is going, and his blood runs cold, for Sam. “It’s not such a bad idea.”  
The angels are smart, using Dean as leverage, knowing that Sam would do anything before willingly let his big brother die. 

“No!” Sam screams, voice piercing Dean’s eardrums. It must do something to the angels, too, because Dean feels the knife twitch against his throat. “No, you won’t hurt him. You will not.” Sam’s glow is getting stronger. He’s on the edge of a breakdown. 

“Sam,” The angel who had killed Meredith says, “If you come with us willingly, we’ll agree to let Dean go. And we won’t hurt him.” 

Sam wets his lips. 

“Sam, don’t you dare.” Dean’s voice is thick with danger, with warning. “Don’t you dare.”

“Samuel, there isn’t time to hesitate. Come now, or Dean dies.” 

“Sam!” Dean barks. “Get in the fucking car, and drive away. I’ll be fine.” 

“Samuel,” an angel chides. “We’re running out of time.” 

“I’ll never, ever forgive you.” Dean says darkly. “Don’t give in. Don’t you dare.” 

Sam opens his mouth, and Dean can see it--he’s about to give in. Before he can, 

Sam closes his eyes, Dean panics. This was it. Sam was going to give in, let the angels take him. Be theirs forever. He had been the straw to break Sam’s back.  
“Sam--” He begins, but before he can get out whatever it is he’s trying to say (and he isn’t even sure where he was going with that, what he could possibly say) he is interrupted by a flash of bright blue light. 

It’s brilliant and blinding, and very sudden. And Dean is burning--is he on fire? It hurts.  
The angel that had been holding him drops to the ground, thrashes once, and then stops moving. Dean doesn’t waste this opportunity, he jumps away, and the burning stops as soon as the angel breaks contact with him. Looking down at his hands, he is free from any burns he feels should be there.

Each angel is going through the same sensation, it appears. On the ground, burn marks of their wings are carved into the pavement surrounding their bodies. 

Their eyes burned out of their heads, smited as though they were a demon.

Dead. 

Dean is fine. He’s alive, and--

Sam. Dean searches for him, and his heart skips when he sees his boy a crumpled mess on the highway pavement. 

No. 

Sam is unconscious, but he has a pulse. It’s fluttering and weak, but its there. Dean pulls him into his arms and kisses his face and says, “Sam? Thank god. Sam, wake up. Hey. Sam!” 

There are a few, blinding moments of chaos, where Dean is sure that Sam has been drawn into another coma, that this is a time where Dean won’t hear Sam’s voice for months, won’t see his smile, won’t kiss him. 

Fear that the great, Big Battle they’ve been dreading ends here, on this empty highway, with a couple of angels and a broken would-be king of everything. 

And then Sam shoots up, eyes wide open, nose bleeding but otherwise, he looked alright. Alert. Alive. Dean remembers how to breathe. 

“Hey,” Dean’s hands are fluttering over Sam, checking for injuries. He wipes the blood away from under his kids nose with a swipe of his thumb. “Hey. You alright?” 

“You’re okay,” Sam gasps, looking as though he’d been terribly, terribly afraid of Dean not being okay, that he’d thought maybe he’d done something. Killed him. “I did...” Sam blinks around. “Oh, god. Meredith. Megan?”

Dean helps Sam get to his feet, and Dean rushes to Megan, while Sam folds at the knees once again, by Meredith’s lifeless body. 

“No,” Sam mumbles, shaking his head. “No. Meredith?” He’s got two fingers pressed at her neck, digging in hard, looking for a pulse. But her ebony skin is growing colder, and Sam’s fingers are searching in vain. Dean knew the awkward angle her neck was at, had heard the clean snap of bone. 

“Meredith,” Sam sobs. “No, no, no, no.” Pressing his forehead into her chest. “Oh, god. I’m so sorry. I’m so, I’m.” Sam is crying uncontrollably, chest heaving and body trembling.

Dean kneels tenderly by Megan, expecting to discover the same fate, afraid to have it be true that they lost two friends in less than twenty minutes. He gingerly presses to fingers to the inside of her wrist, and holds his breath. When he feels a weak flutter against his fingertips, his chest inflates with hope.

“Sam!” Dean snaps. “Sam, Megan is alive. She’s alive!” 

Sam is too far gone. He’s not listening. He’s crawled into his own head, is staying there. Dean pulls out his cell phone and dials 911.  
Megan had internal injuries, no doubt, and she, unlike Dean, had suffered burns from when Sam had smited the angels. She needed medical attention, more than what Dean could offer out of the impala’s first aid kit. 

It was, Dean thought selfishly, another way he could keep her out of the final fight. Because he knew there would be more, and if she wasn’t at full strength, she’d die. And she had so much to live for, and looking at Sam now, Dean knew his kid could only handle so much death, so much blood on his hands before he drowned in it.

“Dean?” Megan’s voice is weak, and her eyes are barely opened. “Dean. Sam, is he…” 

“You’re awake,” Dean holds her head carefully in both his palms. “He’s fine,” Dean lied. He was, in the sense that Megan was implying, anyway. Alive. Healthy. But not fine. “Meredith is..” 

“I know.” She closes her eyes again. “Oh, god. I think she knew it was going to happen. Before, she....”

“S’okay,” Dean lies again. “It’s okay.”  
Megan doesn’t answer. 

“Hey, I called 911. The ambulance is on their way.” Dean smooths her hair back from her forehead. “But, the bodies of the angels...they’re going to ask questions.”

Megan smiles softly at him, not opening her eyes. She probably didn’t have the energy to. “S’okay. You need to go. Quick, ‘fore they get here.” 

“Yeah.” Dean agreed regrettably. “I don’t want to leave you--”

“Go,” Megan urges. “And. And you keep him safe. Like you do. Don’t let those...those bastards win.” 

Dean knows that the ambulance would be there soon, that Megan would be alright. 

“Will do, Megs. You stay alive now, you hear me?” He cups her face gently, and stretches out her hand, allowing her to lock fingers with Meredith. Megan holds on tight to the fingers as they grew colder, and closes her eyes, letting the tears slide down her cheeks and onto the pavement. 

“Dean?” Megan calls. “Don’t you dare die on that boy. He needs you.” 

“Yeah,” Dean whispers. “I know. Stay safe.” He presses a kiss to her forehead, and stands up, tugging on Sam. 

“C’mon, Sam. We need to get out of here before the ambulance comes for Megan.” 

Sam isn’t crying anymore. At least, he isn’t sobbing. He gets to his feet, unblinkingly. 

“Look at all the people I just killed,” Sam says, voice soft. “Dean, look. Count them.” He’s staring at Meredith, her neck bent, wild curls spilling all over her face. 

“Sam,” Dean urges. “We don’t have time,” He was getting antsy. They didn’t have time to deal with police asking questions. 

“Count them,” Sam demands, and Dean picks him up, arms wrapping around Sam and carrying him back to the impala. He opens the door with one arm, and shoves Sam in with the other.  
Then Dean gets in, and they drive away, leaving behind them the whole mess of bodies, and Megan, struggling for life. 

Because this was war, and they had to, and Dean hated himself for it.

Sam sits very still as Dean drives, gaining speed, putting enough distance between them and the mess that they wouldn’t be tracked down. 

“Sam.” Dean finally said, mind racing. “You’re okay.” 

“No one else is.” Sam snaps back, and then closes his eyes. He looks devastated. 

Dean waits a long moment before saying, “I am.” 

Sam opens his eyes at that, but he doesn’t look at Dean. His bottom lip trembles, and Sam bites down on it, hard. “You almost weren’t.” 

“But I am. And so are you. And...Megan will be.”  
“Not Meredith, though.” Sam shakes his head, chewing at his lip. “We just. We dragged them into this and then I killed them.”

“You didn’t kill Meredith,” Dean says firmly. “Were you the one who snapped her neck? No, Sam. And Megan is going to be fine. She was conscious and speaking. She asked me if you were okay.”

“Meredith’s blood is on my hands. I burned Megan.” 

“I’m the one who got Meredith and Megan involved in the first place, back when we were dealing with the Ghul and.” Dean breathes in, tries not to let the guilt suffocate him. The time for grieving would come later, after the war had been fought. “And they knew the risks.” 

“She died for nothing,” Sam chokes. “They just. They killed her, like she was nothing. Like her life meant nothing.” 

“That’s what they do, Sam.” Dean said softly. He forgot, sometimes, that his lovely boy tried so hard to see the best in everyone--even the monsters. Especially them, sometimes. “They don’t care. Human lives, they don’t mean anything.” 

Sam’s shoulders give once in a silent sob, but he’s fighting hard. “And you. You almost,” he pushes his lips into a tight line. “You were going to let them kill you.” 

“No,” Dean lies. “I just wanted you out of there. I could have handled it.” 

Sam snorts out a laugh, dry and bitter. He doesn’t reply, but he doesn’t need to; he never has. 

“You really think I would give up that easy? Just let ‘em have at me? Let them kill me just so you could get a five minute head start?” 

And that, fucking that, breaks Sam. He must hear the truth behind Dean’s words, must hear the undertone of because yeah, I definitely would, that Dean thinks he hides well enough. 

Should have known, though, that Sam could see right through him. 

Sam is crying. “I can’t fucking believe you,” He sobs. “I can’t believe you would do that to me.”

“For you,” Dean corrects, so quietly he doesn’t know if Sam even hears him. 

And just like that, they are back to the fight they were having before this entire mess. Before the chaos. Sam, worried about losing his big brother. Scared that Dean would sacrifice everything for him, and scared he’d have to live in a world where Dean didn’t exist, wasn’t his. 

Sam is crying too hard now, and his voice no longer comes. Instead, he mouths, around tears, I’ve never been so fucking scared in my entire life.

And Dean knows that. He read the terror in Sam’s face, saw a glimpse of how horribly Sam would handle something happening to Dean. 

But he’d do it again, if it meant Sam lived. 

“I’m so sorry,” Dean murmurs. Because he is. For scaring Sam. For not sheltering him better. For not being better for him. “But I’m okay. We both are, Sammy. We’re okay.” 

Dean doesn’t mention Meredith or Megan. Right now, selfishly, this is about the two of them. 

Dean, you can’t leave me, Sam begs, shaking his head, eyes wild. Please. Please.

“Sam. Focus on me, I’m right here, I’m not leaving. Not again. You hear that?” Dean demands, trying to gather up the pieces of their lives that fallen on the car floor, trying to stop the leak before it became a flood that would drown them both alive. He grabs Sam’s hand again, pushing it against his chest, like he always does when trying to calm Sam down.  
“That’s my heartbeat, Sam, and it’s real and it’s right here next to you, and it’s not going away anytime soon. You hear me? We’re not alone. You’re not ever going to be alone, if I can help it.” 

And those words must have meant something, because Sam’s hands come to life beneath Dean’s, clawing at Dean’s chest and pressing hard, like he needed to be sure, needed to physically feel the steady pounding against his palm. Like he had when he was searching for Meredith’s pulse.

“We gotta take this...one thing at a time, Sam. We’re about to head into something bigger than we’ve ever seen. And I need you to be focused. I need you to be ready.” Dean talks slowly. Calmly, even though he feels anything but.

John is dead. 

Meredith is dead.

Bobby was --well, they didn’t know. But Dean wasn’t well practiced in the art of hoping anymore. 

Officially, the Winchester boys had no family except each other. 

Sam’s hazel eyes are begging for something stable, and Dean hates himself for not being able to provide a safe place for Sam now. 

Promise me you’re going to try. To make it out alive, Sam mouths. I need you to.

Dean’s heart breaks. One day, maybe not today, or tomorrow, or even this year, but one day, Dean is going to die, just like everybody else. And if Dean will do anything in this life, it will be to make damn sure that he goes before Sam. 

And that is something that he can’t protect his kid from. Sam’s gonna lose him, eventually. He’s going to live with that ache and Dean can’t stop it or make it better. 

You gotta live for me, Sam traces--scratches--into Dean’s thigh, each letter deliberate and careful. Live for me, Dean.

“Quit thinking about me dying, s’bad mojo.” Dean mumbles, trying to lighten the mood. His jaw remains tight. “Gonna be fine.”

Sam isn’t having it. Tears in his eyes, he grips Dean’s leg to force his brother to look at him. He sniffles a little, and then opens his mouth, struggling to speak for a moment before the words finally come to him. “I saw your face. I saw it. You plan on dying for me, Dean. Don’t you?” Sam spits, voice wobbly. Dean is shocked to hear it, so much so that his lips quirk up into a small smile that fades just as quick as it appeared. 

As beautiful as Sam’s voice was, he could tell that his boy’s heart was breaking.

When Sam tries to speak again, his voice doesn’t come, too shaken to focus hard enough on it. Slips like water through his fingers once again.

Dean clenches his jaw. “I said quit it, Sam. I told you, I’m not going anywhere. Not going to leave you alone.” The highway is open and empty before them. A glance in his rearview shows no signs of Megan or the mess of bodies. They’re far enough away. 

No. You know I’m right. Don’t care what you say to me, you’ll do it anyway. You’re a coward, Dean. A selfish coward. Sam cries, fresh tears falling into his lap. You’d really do that? You’d go and--and die? Leaving me alone? Don’t tell me you would do that, Dean. I know you love me more than that. Sam mouths each word messily, lips trembling violently with his tears.

Dean considers not answering, but when he grabs Sam’s hand again, it’s burning hot to the touch, just like in the diner. Sam was losing control. “Sammy,” Dean says gently. “You need to calm down.” 

I’m not going to lose you. I won’t live without you. I won’t. I won’t.

“Sam,” Dean barks sharply. “Enough. Calm down, okay? I don’t plan on going anywhere anytime soon. Not dyin’ today.”

But you’d die for me.

“‘Course I would. You’d do the same for me, I know you would.” Dean snaps. “So quit it.”

Sam presses his lips together. I’m not going to let you die.

Dean squeezes Sam’s hand tightly in his, jaw set tightly. He means every word when he says, “I’m not going to let you die, either.” 

And that was that. They’d made their promises, each one sure in their resolve. Each one, lonely and scared and in way over their heads, each one promising to fiercely love the other, each one sure that they’d go down in the name of protecting their other half.

Dean turns up the radio. It’s a slow, acoustic song. One he doesn’t recognize, and this style isn’t usually something he’d listen to, but it fits, for now, and as the guitar plays on, he feels Sam’s grip loosen and his breathing slow, as he relaxed slightly.  
Turn here, Sam murmurs. We’re close.

Dean swallows, and obliges, watching the cracked pavement disappear under the hungry tires of the impala. 

______________________________________

Bobby Singer is still alive.  
He doesn’t know why, or how, or anything, really. But he’s alive, still in the same damn chair in the same damn room. 

“They’re coming, you know,” it’s voice is casual, conversational, as the demon steps into the room. “They’ve been on their way for a while. In fact, they are almost here.” 

Bobby blinks, but doesn’t say a word. He thought Dean would know better than this, be more ruthless than this, when it came to Sam. He thought the boy would stop at nothing to keep Sam safe.

Then again, the Winchester’s weren’t really runners. Dean probably knew that even if he kept Sam away from this particular mess, the fact that Heaven and Hell still wanted him wouldn’t change.

Eventually, they’d have to face the music. 

“We’re not going to kill you just yet.” The demon continues, leaning up against the cold brick wall. The demon grimaces, and looks a little guilty. “Boss wasn’t too happy about me killing Daddy Winchester, if I’m honest.” 

Bobby is surprised by this.

“If we want to win the boy’s favor, win Sam over, he can’t hate us.” The demon shrugs. “We figure he likes you more than he ever loved his father anyway. So you’re our bargaining chip.” The demon grins. 

Of course, Bobby thinks. Of course. Sam’s compliance for Bobby’s life. 

Bobby closed his eyes, and hoped for a swift, painless death.

_____________________________________________

There, Sam grabs Dean’s arm and points to a shabby looking department building, clearly abandoned for some time. We’re here.

Suddenly, Dean felt wildly and uncontrollably terrified. Less than 200 yards away was the place where he’d fight for his little brothers life. The place where, if he fails, he’ll lose Sam forever.

Dean turns into the parking lot and resists the urge to flee. There is no point in parking the impala somewhere the demons inside wouldn’t be able to spot easily. He is sure that their visit is expected, and welcome. 

Dean puts the car in park, and pulls the keys from the ignition. Without the rumble of Baby’s engine beneath them, the world seemed oddly unfamiliar and dangerous. 

Sam turns to face Dean, his chin held high. He doesn’t look scared. He doesn’t look dubious. 

Dean’s kid, his beautiful, brave, stupidly kind kid, looks ready, and Dean has never been more proud or more in love. After everything, after the horrible day they’d had, Sam was okay.

He was strong.

Sam frowns for a long moment, and Dean understands that Sam is trying to speak, to use his voice.  
Dean waits patiently.

“Whatever happens, I want you to know--” Sam begins, and Dean is already shaking his head. 

“I’ll tell you what’s going to happen,” Dean interrupts, taking Sam’s face in both of his hands and staring right into those endless hazel eyes. “We’re going to storm in there. We’re going to get Bobby back, we’re going to kill the demons who killed our father,” Dean pauses, inhaling shakily. “We’re going to find the angels that killed Meredith, n’make them pay. And we’re going to make it damn clear to Heaven and Hell that you don’t belong to anybody but me, and that I’ll be the only person takin’ you back with me after all of this is done.”

Sam smiles. It’s not wide or bright or even that happy, but it still leaves Dean dazzled, like staring into the sun for too long. “That sounds good.” Sam says wistfully, like he wishes it would be that easy. Like he knows it won’t be. 

Dean wishes, too. 

“I love you, Sammy. To the end of the earth and back, a million times.”

“Love you more,” Sam says easily, as if speaking were just like breathing now, among these dangerous moments.

Then Dean kisses those full, shell pink lips, because he can’t help it. He presses their foreheads together and breathes in while Sam breathes out. “Love you most.” Dean murmurs, and Sam rolls his eyes.

It’s almost easy.

“Live for this,” Sam says finally, his voice small but unwavering. Dean is so fucking proud of how far they’ve come, of how much Sam has accomplished. “For the quiet moments.” Sam whispers.

Dean kisses the tip of Sam’s nose, his forehead, each cheek, each pale eyelid, and finally, a long, final kiss to Sam’s lips. He commits everything to memory, every fluttering eyelash, the texture of Sam’s full lips, the softness of his fingertips, the fire in his eyes. 

“Okay,” Dean whispers. “Okay. Let’s do this.” 

Sam offers a small, half there smile. “Let’s go get Bobby back.” 

“Sam--” Dean begins, and then kisses him again, because he can’t help it. Because Sam’s gravity just pulls him in. Sam kisses him back eagerly, soft lips and teeth and tongue. 

“When this is done,” Dean says, eyes closed, foreheads pressed together, “All done, and over with. Promise me something?” 

“Anything,” Sam murmurs. 

“After this, let’s settle down. Get a place somewhere. Make a home.”

Sam grins, pushing his face into Dean’s neck. “Yeah? You want that?”

“I do,” Dean says. “Somewhere safe for us. I want that bad.” So bad his bones ached for it.

Sam nuzzles in closer. He smells like smoke and asphalt and something so purely Sam it makes Dean’s head spin. “God, Dean. Me too.” 

“Then it’s decided.” Dean declares, “Wherever you want. We’ll go there. After this mess.” 

“Okay,” Sam whispers, but it doesn’t sound like he fully believes it. 

“Play your cards right and you might even end up with a diamond ring to go with it.” Dean says very quietly. “A dog, too.” 

Sam is quiet for a moment, grabbing fistfuls of Dean’s shirt and holding on so tight Dean wonders if he’s planning on tearing the fabric. “Yes, please,” Sam manages. “I would like that,” 

“Okay, kitten,” Dean nods, kissing Sam’s hair. “Okay. Then let’s go kick some ass.” 

Sam laughs a little against him, and Dean is in love. “I promise not to kill you,” Sam says half heartedly. 

“Phew,” Dean winks. 

He wants there to be a future. But if there isn’t, after today, then he’s given Sam something to hold on to. Something to keep him warm. 

Dean climbs out of the safety of the impala, and wonders vaguely if he’ll ever sit behind the wheel again, Sam beside him, the windows down, the music up. 

Sam follows him out. 

Dean pops the trunk to the impala, and begins distributing the weapons they got from Ava. If the demon knives worked, all five of them, they’d have an advantage. If not, they’d be face to face with a pissed off demon, and a dead human vessel. 

Both of their phones had a recording of an exorcism on it, just in case, but there was not guarantee they’d be able to reach their devices in time. 

Dean divides the weapons between himself and Sam. Neither of them say how their team of four was down two members, how it was just them against the world, that their odds have decreased significantly. 

“Are we ready?” Sam murmurs, looking down at an angel blade, twisting it in his fingers.  
“‘Course,” Dean says, because he has to.  
In that moment, couldn’t disagree more. They were just two people, just two broken boys, desperately in love and terribly afraid of losing the one good thing they have; each other.

When Sam takes the first step towards the abandoned warehouse, it takes everything in Dean not to yell, to thrash out, to grab his kid and take him far, far away from here. It was going against everything in Dean, to let Sam walk into the danger. 

Dean takes long strides to catch up to Sam, and instead of standing in front of Sam as they walked in, to shield Sam, to keep him out of the field of vision of the evil things that lurked behind the brick walls, Dean forces himself to stand beside his little brother.

“You’ve got to be powerful,” Dean says softly. “Don’t hold back, Sam, whatever you do. Now is not the time to hold back.” 

Sam nods sharply. Let’s go give ‘em hell, De. 

Dean grins, only for a moment, and while it doesn’t reach his eyes, Sam returns the smile, and Dean feels stronger. More ready.

Dean ruffles Sam’s hair, lets his hand linger for just a moment on the back of Sam’s neck, feeling the soft skin there. Vulnerable skin. 

When they reach the door, Dean motions for Sam to stop, as he swiftly kicks it down, creating a loud crashing sound. 

And so the war begins.

“Honey,” Dean calls, muscles coiled for action as he leads Sam inside. “We’re home,” 

Sam swallows, staying pressed close to Dean’s back. The walls were grey and everything was covered in a thick layer of dust. 

“Stay close,” Dean urges, although he was pretty sure Sam couldn’t get any closer if he tried. 

They proceeded down the corridor and into a small, dark room, where Dean could hear laughter. He straightens immediately, hairs on the back of his neck standing at attention, every cell in his body ready to protect. 

“Well, well, well.” A man--no, a demon, Dean was sure--in all black, with Nike runners and limp, dark hair, is leaning leisurely against the wall with a leisurely smile. “So nice to finally meet you, Winchesters.” He stands up straight, and comes closer. Dean clenches his jaw and with one arm, moves Sam behind him, shielding him with his body. 

“You stand the fuck back, you bastard,” Dean snarls. The menace in his voice makes even Sam shiver. This is a side of Dean Sam hadn’t been exposed to--not like this. Not as vicious as this. “Stay the hell away from him.” 

The demon acts as if he hadn’t spoken, and only bows, low and slow. “Samuel,” He murmurs, eyes focused intensely on Sam. “What an honor.”

Sam flinches against Dean’s back, and holds the handle of his demon knife tighter, muscles flexing around it. He doesn’t reply.

Dean nudges Sam back into a wall, as he takes another step forward, getting into the demon’s personal space. “Who the hell are you,” he demands, “and where is Bobby Singer? And my father? What did you do with our father?”

The demon laughs. Actually, honest to god, laughs in Dean’s face, yellow teeth exposed, eyes closed in pure bliss. 

White, hot rage swells up in Dean, and in the next second, Dean’s hand is around the demon’s throat, pressing him against the wall. “Answer me, or I’ll kill you right now. No hesitation.” 

“Go ahead,” The demon taunts. “There are thousands more like me, coming for our king.” The thing’s eyes dart over to Sam. “We aren’t going to let the angels take him. They’ll make a weapon out of him, you know. Nuclear warfare. He’ll be nothing but a huge, atomic bomb. Do you really want that for him, Dean?” 

Dean squeezes tighter, unconvinced. Unlike Sam, Dean didn’t see the good in everyone, and he didn’t trust the thing as far as he could throw it. “And just what the hell do you assholes want with him?” 

“Teach him.” The demon wheezes, but he doesn’t struggle. His eyes stay trained on Dean’s, eerily calm despite Dean’s advantageous hold. “Teach him to control his power. He’d be our leader. Our king. He would make the earth...ours. No more pesky angels flying around and smiting us. He could protect us all. Lock them all up.” The demon moves his unblinking gaze to Sam. “We’d worship him.”

“He’s got angel blood. Doesn’t that make him your enemy?” Megan pipes up. Her voice sounds strong and Dean is glad. 

“Lucifer was an angel before he fell.” The demon replies softly. “And he is our father.”

Dean growls, a low sound rumbling out his chest, more lethal than a grunt of frustration. He doesn’t have time for this sales pitch. They came here for a reason. “Tell me where Bobby is,” He demands. “Now.” 

The demon only grins fiercely back at Dean. “You didn’t really think we’d just hand him over and call it a day, did you? I thought you were smarter than that.” 

“He’s alive.” Sam speaks up, his voice ringing out like bells, bouncing off the walls of the run down building and dancing into Dean’s ears like a hail Mary. “Bobby is alive, and he’s somewhere close. I can feel it.” 

Sam was speaking. Among all this chaos, all this fear. “Dean, let’s go get Bobby,” 

Dean grits his teeth, getting anxious. With just one demon to greet them, he knew there had to be more coming, and fast. Not to mention the angels that had yet to be seen. This entire situation was much too calm for his liking.

“He has information,” Dean speaks slowly, through clenched teeth. His adrenaline is pumping, he’s ready for a battle, but he knows he won’t find it here. 

“We don’t need him,” Sam encourages, and Dean can tell he’s getting antsy, too. “C’mon, we can’t get cornered here.”

Dean watches the demon’s smug face for a while longer, before letting a demon knife fall into his grip, and sliding it into the demon’s chest without blinking. 

They watch as the demon stutters and flashes, before sinking to the ground. 

Dean checks for a pulse. 

Dead. 

“Knife works.” Dean confirms emotionlessly, tucking it back up his sleeve in one fluid motion. 

Sam swallows. Already, the bodies were piling up.  
And they had only just begun. 

“Let’s get moving,” Dean turns away from the body and locks eyes with Sam, pretending not to see the fear and unease on his kid’s features. “And stay alert. There’s more of these bastards somewhere.” 

“Indeed, there is.” A new voice, deep and melodic, makes Dean jump and whip around, knife already in his grip, ready for a fight. He presses back until he feels Sam’s body against him, until he knows he’s shielding Sam. 

The man was dressed in a suit, neatly pressed and cleanly shaven. His hair was slick with gel of some sort, and he carried himself with an aura of confidence that Dean immediately did not like. As a Winchester, Dean much preferred when the demons were cowering in fear.

“You reek of evil.” Sam breathes, his breath hot against the back of Sam’s neck. 

The man smiles sweetly. “Don’t be afraid.” It continues, in that measured, calm tone, clearly not threatened by the knife Dean was holding or the dead body on the ground. That made Dean uneasy. Clearly, this thing was powerful. Was confident. “The last thing I would ever want is to hurt our precious Samuel.” 

Dean grinds his jaw. “Forgive me if I find that hard to believe.” He tightens his grip on the knife. “Who the hell are you, anyway? Angel, or demon?” 

“Neither, really. And I’m on Sam’s side, of course.” The thing replies. “I’m sure you’ve heard of me.” He does a mock bow. “My name is Lucifer.” 

Dean’s mouth goes dry.  
“As in.” Dean doesn’t finish his sentence. 

“As in, the devil himself, yes, Dean Winchester. That would be me,” Lucifer nods politely. “Pleasure to finally meet you--I’ve heard so much.” 

While Dean is still processing this, still making sense of it, Sam steps around him, out into the open where he could get hurt, or taken, or worse, and. 

“You’re...evil.” Sam repeats, and Dean knows that Sam can sense it. Like Meredith, Sam seemed to just know things sometimes. Could feel them, taste them, smell them. 

Lucifer reaches out for Sam’s hand, and Sam snaps it back, shaking his head. The devil doesn’t push, for which Dean is glad. He wants to snatch Sam back into the protection of his arms, but he knows that he mustn’t--no sudden movements. They had to keep this situation calm. And doing so would only make Sam look weak.

“No,” Lucifer argues, voice sounding so sincere and sweet that even Dean must consciously remind himself that this is Satan he’s speaking to. “I get a bad rep, Sam. Worse than I deserve. Before I fell, I was God’s favorite angel. His brightest star.” Lucifer shakes his head sadly, eyes trailing off to focus on the dusty wall behind Sam.  
“But I loved God too fiercely, you see. And because of my love, of all things, I was exiled.” He looks up through dark lashes, fluttering them at Sam. “Can you imagine?” He whispers. “Being hated just for loving someone too much? Cast out just for feeling such a pure emotion?” 

Dean feels a furious fire burn up inside him, for Lucifer praying on Sam so openly like this. It’s obvious, the double meaning Lucifer is implying, and Dean wants to kill him bad. 

Sam’s eyes dart between his brother and Lucifer, and he swallows. “You kill people.” Sam mumbles, but Dean can see his resolve fading. 

“Your brother just killed the father of a four year old boy, and a seven year old girl. They’ll never see their dad again.” Lucifer gestures to the body lying discarded in a corner--the demon Dean had stabbed. 

“Neither will we, thanks to you.” Sam replies smartly. “I know you had something to do with my father’s death. Orchestrated it.” 

Lucifer shakes his head. “Of course not. I was furious when I found out what my subordinates had done. I intended a joyous reunion between you and your father. I only wanted to draw you here, and gain your trust. Never to hurt you.” He promises gently. 

Sam curls up his lip in disgust.

“Why the hell do you want Sam? Shouldn’t he be your competition?” Dean snaps. “Considering you’re the big man down below, and all.” 

“Of course not,” Lucifer argues, smiling wickedly. “I am the creator of hell, but Sam is the rightful king. Together, sharing power, Samuel and I have a whole world of possibilities. Together, we will be the most powerful force on earth.” 

“I will never, ever, work alongside you.” Sam snaps, taking a step forward. His voice shakes, but doesn’t crack. Dean can tell he’s losing it. 

“I think you’ll change your mind.” Lucifer shrugs, not alarmed. “Follow me. There are people waiting for you.” 

“He’s not going anywhere with you.” Dean snaps, stepping beside Sam. 

Lucifer snorts. “Down, boy, down,” He is already walking, expecting the others to follow. “Wasn’t the whole point of this mission to rescue dear old Bobby?” He cocks a brow. 

Sam inhales sharply. “You have him.” 

“Indeed. Are you coming?”

Sam is. 

“Hey,” Dean says in an angry whisper, grabbing Sam’s hand. “You’re just going to blindly follow after him? The devil himself? Sam, if anyone has a trick up their sleeve, it’s that guy.” 

Sam’s eyes are wild and desperate when they lock with Dean’s. “Dean, this is Bobby. They already killed dad. Who knows how long we have until they do the same to him?” 

Dean, like Sam, didn’t want to know the answer to that question. Trap or not, it was their best guess. “Fine.” Dean snaps. “But stay behind me.” 

Sam lifts his chin, and grabs Dean’s hand. He stays very firmly and obviously, beside his brother. 

They walk down a dark, narrow hallway, following the sounds of footsteps alone.  
Dean felt wildly unprepared.

“I swear to god,” Dean calls out, heart pounding. “If Bobby ain’t alive and well, you’re going to be damn sorry.” 

A few more minutes of silent stumbling in the dark, before a gruff, achingly familiar voice calls out, “Relax, ya idjit. M’fine.” 

Sam lets out a cry similar to a small animal in pain, and then he’s gone, hand slipping out of Dean’s grip, darting off. Before Dean can shout out for him, worried, the hallway opens up to a dimly lit room, where Dean can see his kid falling into the arms of…

Bobby.

There he is, good and well, looking as he always has, if a little dirty and a lot tired. He’s got an armful of Sam, and he looks relieved, and a little scared. Maybe he was hoping Dean would keep Sam as far away from this mess as possible. 

Maybe Dean let him down. 

“Bobby,” Dean breathes, but doesn’t move. He lets Sam have his moment. 

“Hey, kid.” Bobby mumbles. His eyes are sad, and he looks guilty, as if he has to tell them something. Dean can guess exactly what. 

“About our father…” Dean begins, trying not to choke on the words. “We know. He’s.” Dean shakes his head. “He’s gone.” 

Bobby hugs Sam, hard, and nods once, not breaking eye contact with Dean. The sad look doesn’t go away, though, and Dean wonders if there is more they don’t know. “I’m so sorry, boys.” Bobby’s voice breaks only a little. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t save ‘em.” 

“S’not your fault,” Dean promises fiercely, not wanting Bobby to live with the guilt, or think that he and Sam blamed him. “Just damn glad to see you’re alright.” 

“So you see,” Lucifer begins. “Bobby is safe. He’s alive. And he’s all yours,” he pauses, “if Sam joins us.” 

Sam pulls away from Bobby, looking at Lucifer with an expression of betrayal. “He’s coming with us.” Sam says firmly, and Bobby looks only mildly surprised to hear Sam talking. 

When Sam tries to pull on Bobby’s arm to drag him closer to Dean, Lucifer twitches a finger, and Bobby falls to the ground, withering in pain. 

“What are you doing to him?” Dean demands, heart pounding, running to Bobby’s side. “Stop! You’re killing him, stop!” Dean is desperate, clutching at Bobby’s head and trying to make it stop, trying to do something, to be useful. 

“Come with us, Sam.” Lucifer says softly, unbothered by the chaos. “And all of it will stop. Dean and Bobby will be safe forever. You’ll be a king, Sam. Waited on, hand and foot. Wanting for nothing.” 

Sam is ignoring Lucifer, kneeling by Bobby’s side as well, eyes wide in horror. Dean can tell his mind is racing, trying to come up with a solution that didn’t end in becoming king of hell or Bobby dying. 

“Please,” Sam begs. He’d already lost so much today, Dean knew he couldn’t bear to watch Bobby die, too. It would destroy him. “Please, make it stop and I’ll do whatever you want. Please, please, God. You’re killing him, he’s going to--” in the middle of his sentence, Sam’s voice cuts out, just like that, and he’s left wordless once again, mouthing his pleas of Bobby’s trembling Bobby, his loud cries of pain. 

“Sam,” Dean murmurs, voice low. “Sam, you can fix this. You have the ability to stop it.” 

Sam shakes his head violently. No, no I can’t. 

“Yes, you do. Focus, Sam. Save him. You can do it. Save Bobby’s life.” Dean whispers, hoping hard. “C’mon, kid. I know you can.” It wasn’t completely true. Dean didn’t know the extent of Sam’s powers, didn’t fully understand them, but he was hoping, as hard as anything, that Sam could. Believed in him. 

But it would mean overcoming Lucifer’s control over Bobby, and Dean didn’t know if Sam could be that strong. 

Sam places his hands on Bobby’s head, and in a second, Bobby’s body stills. 

Dean’s heart lurches violently, thinking for a second, Oh god, he’s dead, before Sam breathes out shakily, eyes sliding shut as if in a trance, and at the same time, Bobby’s eyelids flutter and reopen, looking breathless but not in pain. 

“Bobby?” Dean asks, putting a hand on neck. A pulse. A strong, patterig pulse. Thank god. “Are you alright?”

Bobby sits up, brushing himself off. He seems shaken up, but alive. Alive was a win, at this point. It was all they could hope for.  
In the process of standing, Bobby slips out of Sam’s grip, and Sam’s hands fall limp to his lap, lifeless. Bobby’s catching his breath, but he nods once. “M’fine,” He grunts. “Thanks to Sam.” 

“Unbelievable,” Lucifer murmurs, watching the encounter with an expression of pure delight and intrigue. “Truly remarkable.” 

“Amazing, Sam,” Meredith chimes, her voice somewhere to Dean’s left. 

“Sam.” Dean says, putting a hand on Sam’s shoulder, not sure what the hell was going on. “Hey, kid. Look at me.” 

When Sam opens his eyes, they are unfocused. He blinks a few times, as if to regain consciousness, awareness, and then slowly looks at Dean, a little surprised. 

“What did you do?” Dean demands. “Sam, how did you do that?”

He takes his hands off Bobby, and sits up. I...don’t know, he mouths. Dean believes him. 

“Samuel is powerful.” Lucifer says, amazed. “I was controlling Bobby with my mind, making him think that he was in pain, and Sam overpowered it. Got under my control and pushed me out.” He looks utterly baffled. “And didn’t even break a sweat.” 

Dean is the first to stand up, then offers a hand to Bobby, and then to Sam, pulling Sam in close to his side once he is standing. “You’re okay,” Dean murmurs, low enough for only Sam’s ears. 

He feels Sam squeeze his hand once. Yeah, he was.

“You can’t control Bobby as leverage.” Dean declares, voice confident. “Sam is more powerful than you.” 

“In that moment, Sam overpowered me,” Lucifer admits. Dean doesn’t fail to notice that his tone is growing darker. “But don’t make the mistake of discounting me as a threat. I am dangerous, and I will find a way to ensure Sam comes with us by sundown.”

Bobby snorts. “Sundown? What is this, a Shakespeare play?” 

If Dean needed any more proof that Bobby was alright, his sassy remarks were it. 

“Samuel,” Lucifer begins, and Dean doesn’t like that tone. It has lost all of the previous charm and delight, and with all of that false pretense stripped away, the devil sounds exactly as Dean would imagine: dark, dangerous, and ready to kill. “You will come with me, or you suffer severe consequences.”

Lucifer chuckles, and begins to walk closer to Sam. Dean responds to this by shoving Sam into Bobby, while he takes a step forward, to meet Lucifer. They stand less than a foot apart.  
Dean understands that this means something, that Lucifer is about to strike, and when he does, Dean is ready. Lucifer tries to grab Dean around the waist, but Dean dances away, goes for a punch in the gut, but Lucifer doesn’t even flinch. Before Dean can pull back from the hit, there is a hand around his throat, cutting off his air supply, and lifting him off the ground. 

He hears Sam cry out his name--talking again, using his beautiful voice--and then Bobby grunting. Probably, hopefully, trying to hold Sam back. Someone ought to. 

Dean isn’t new to this game. He stops struggling, uses the fact that his hands are free to summon the angel blade in one hand, and the demon knife in the other. He’s not sure which Lucifer is, but he’s willing to try both. 

Dean doesn’t hesitate. With a grunt, he buries them both into the devils chest with a swift blow, and Lucifer releases him instantly, hitting the ground with a gasp, and staying down. 

“Dean,” Sam gasps, running to him, “Are you okay?” 

“Fine,” Dean wheezes, struggling to get air back into his lungs. “But that isn’t going to hold him for long. We gotta move.”

“Can’t leave yet,” Sam shakes his head. “There are more of them, outside.” 

“Ah, hell.” Bobby grunts. Dean can see he’s putting on a brave face, to hide just how worn out he really feels. Weeks of endless torture could do that to anyone, Dean supposes. Even the strongest of men. “I just want to take a shower.”

“Outside we go. Time to face the music. You ready, Sam?” Dean checks his kid over once. No cuts or scrapes, not yet. The only blood that had been shed so far was on the opposing side, and Dean would call that much a victory. 

But they’d hardly begun. 

“Ready,” Sam mumbles, and his voice sounds unsure. His lips are pressed into a tight line, brows drawn together in a look of determination. Dean’s perfect boy, so brave, and so gorgeous, and in so much danger it made Dean’s bones ache just to think about.

Dean leans in--knowing that Bobby was right there, that he was watching, that he might even freak out-- and kisses Sam’s lips, gently, lovingly, pulling away before he can be selfish, decide to grab Sam and get the hell out of dodge.  
He leaves a lingering kiss on Sam’s forehead, and tries very hard not to think about how this might be the very last time he is able to do so. 

When Dean finally pulls away, Sam is looked very surprised, but less like a soldier. The wide eyed look makes him appear younger, and Dean is glad. Sam’s gaze immediately darts over to Bobby, who is staring pointedly at the ground.

“Gotta keep movin’,” Bobby declares, not giving any other reaction. “We’ve got a boy to protect.” His voice is steely. Just when Dean is sure that Bobby hates him, that he’s lost the only other family he has left, Bobby meets his gaze. “Ain’t that right, son?” 

Dean feels a rush of surprise, of relief, and then, of pure determination. “Yessir.” Dean nods. “We do.” 

“Then let’s get to it.” 

Sam lets out an audible breath, and follows Dean. Just as he has always done. 

As Dean leads the way out of the small room and through the side door to the massive warehouse parking lot, he hears Bobby shut the door and lock it. It wasn’t much, but maybe it would buy them some time, keep Lucifer for just a fraction longer, when he woke up. 

When they get outside, the bright sun blinds them for only a moment, as they blink hard, their eyes adjusting to the light.

“Fuck,” Is all Dean can manage. “Fuck.” 

Sam had been right, when he sensed that there were more angels and demons outside. They were surrounded, alright. Surrounded, and outnumbered by the thousands. 

Dean’s muscles lock, and he pulls Sam impossibly close, tugging him so that Sam’s chest was against Dean’s back, trying to hide him from what they were up against. Maybe if they didn’t see him, they wouldn’t hurt him. Maybe Dean could keep Sam safe forever.

“Dean--” Bobby begins, and Dean cuts him off.  
“I know,” He says. “We’re screwed.” 

The once empty parking lot was now full of bodies, standing idly still, two distinct sides, clearly opposing each other but both facing Sam. 

There were thousands, hundreds of thousands. And they were all here for one thing.

Sam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!!  
> I'm wincestplease on tumblr and I'm always active if you want to talk about wincest or this fic or anything really!!!  
> I would love if you could leave a comment and kudos down below! Tell me what you think!!
> 
> Love you all so so so so so much
> 
> <3 
> 
> P.S : this chapter is titled after the song "Religion" by Colton Avery :) It's a beautiful song and it really reminds me of wincest!!  
> If you have any suggestions for songs that give you those feels, let me know!

**Author's Note:**

> My tumblr is wincestplease if you ever want to drop by and yell at me c; Seriously, though! Come say hi! I'd really appreciate it!  
> Thanks for reading (:


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